Fly Me To The Moon
by HandsAcrossTheSea
Summary: It hurts to love him, when time and circumstance has separated your lives so well that the only thing left is the ghost of his lips on your skin.


San Diego, even in February, is warm. Well, warm compared to the rest of the country. Last week they had been in Wisconsin and it's a wonder they managed to pull Baby out of that last snowbank. Just, fuck snow, fuck the cold, and fuck Dean freezing his goddamn balls off. Those boys are supposed to stay at a between ninety four and ninety six degrees and hang loose – very loose. He'd much rather they stick to the side of his leg then disappear into his body.

That's why they deliberately looked for something in a warmer climate – San Diego is about as far as south and west as it gets, where that awful thing called winter can't get to them. It had been a good case, too – one of those celebrity house builders had been chopped to pieces by his own tools. Very messy, but fun. He and Sam had almost been on television a couple times and maybe if they had been, Dad would be making himself easier to find. That bastard's sneaky for an old guy.

Okay, so it's not technically February anymore; it's the last day of the month, which means it's been almost four since Sammy came crashing back into his life, four since he'd had given up his dream of law school, and four since he'd lost the girl who he thought he was going to marry. Yeah, sure, whatever – he hadn't missed the way Sam didn't exactly draw away from him when he tackled him to the floor of his apartment and the way his throat had bobbed when he'd said "easy, tiger."

Some tells never fail, and Sammy's plainly obvious when he's into someone, and that someone is Dean. It's _always_ been Dean, really. They've wandered from each other but hell if they didn't always come back. God, Dean had more sex with Sam between the ages of sixteen and twenty than Dean's had in his whole life. Kid's a goer, even though he's not a kid anymore. No, he's almost twenty three and so fucking gorgeous that Dean starts to feel funny between his legs if he looks at him too long. There isn't an ounce of gangliness left in him– Sam's a man now, and a big fucking strong one, too.

What hurts more than anything, though, is that Dean knows the Sammy before the transformation that a college gym and good meals did to him, and not the one after – and that's why there have been three almost kisses in the last four months. Each one was enough to get Dean going so fast that he had to go jerk off out of sight, Sam still drifting while Dean tries to quell his desire to just grab him. He admits it only to himself – he's got it real fucking bad for his baby brother, and there isn't a damn bit of shame in him to be felt about it.

They're sitting on the hood of the Impala, watching the city go by from a parking lot right near the beach, having gotten up to look at the ocean before they go tearing off to the next disaster. A balmy seventy degrees and a nice sea breeze or not, Sam's still wearing a light sweat jacket over his t-shirt. It's pulled a little too tightly across his frame, and it's even worse where he's hunched forward over his legal pad, scribbling notes on it with one hand and holding a bag of sunflower seeds with the other. Dean's been staring at his back for the last fifteen minutes while Sam's finished doing whatever it is he's doing.

"Still hard to believe that the guy's dead kid is the one who went for him." Sam spits out an empty shell before he looks up at Dean. "Didn't seem like an abusive sort of guy to me."

Dean takes a second to respond – he was watching Sam's pink-as-a-bow mouth. God, he needs to kiss this boy soon. "Ghosts are weird, Sam, what can I say?"

Sam gives a slow shrug of those ample shoulders. Dean feels his stomach tie itself in a knot as a result. "I know that, but he didn't even kill him with the tools. Guess maybe he blamed his dad for his death? Neglect?"

"He's a 'T.V. star' – probably pawned him off to a bunch of nannies." Now if Sam would just get around to pawing _him_ off…

"But… there wasn't any evidence that he wasn't the one raising the kid. He just… I don't think that's reason for him end up in bait sized pieces." Sam's voice trails off, the wheels clearly turning in his head. Sammy's got a really nice thinking face, his brow furrowing and his lips pursing in concentration. Dean would gladly sit and look at him a while longer, but they've got to hit the road soon. Sunny San Diego isn't the only place where evil lurks about. If they could head on up the coast to Los Angeles – now there's a city they could shack up in for a while, really clean it out. Maybe even spy a couple famous people and see what they look like from the other side.

"Hey, at least you have something to think about on the road. C'mon baby boy, let's ride." Dean doesn't try to hide the pet name; he sneaks it in at least a few times a week. So far Sam hasn't had a reaction - or he's just gotten really good at hiding it if there is one - and Dean knows most of Sam's reactions, too. C'mon Sammy, quit fooling around and just come back, is that so hard?

They did share a bed in Wisconsin, but Dean has the feeling that was more out of it being goddamn twenty below than anything else. Sam hadn't tried anything, and Dean wasn't about to without his explicit consent. They'd laid down that rule a long, long time ago and so far have stuck by it. It's a good one to follow.

Once they're in the car – and Sam is still pretending or not reacting to 'baby boy' – he pulls out his map. Thing's been used so much it's starting to resist Dean's most valiant taping efforts. They really should get a new one, but this one has all the important spots marked on it. Gotta love good cartography. (And yes, Sammy, I know what that word means.)

"We have a pick of cases – mysterious drownings in the Everglades, disappearances in the mountains of eastern New York, or combines starting up at random in the Kansas and Nebraska and running through people's houses with no one at the wheel." Sammy hands him three different news briefs and lets Dean peruse them at his leisure.

"Alligators, Yankees, or corn. Shit, I'd rather deal with the alligators. Florida it is." Dean cranks the Impala up and listens to the engine purr. At least he can always fiddle with his car while he waits for Sam, and lately he's been doing quite a bit of it. Sam does at least grace him with his presence while he fucks around under the hood. Lets him think about Sam's cock without being too obvious. Well, aside from occasionally rubbing himself against the bumper because thinking about Sam naked inevitably results in a boner.

They're out of the city limits before Sam speaks again. "There uh, there isn't any corn this time of year."

"Huh?"

"You said alligators, Yankees, or corn – it's February, there isn't any corn this time of year." Sam's trying to hide a smile, but the dimples are there, and Dean can't bring himself to be too perturbed by Sam's attempt at being a smart ass.

"I know that – it's a general thing, you know? You think of the Great Plains, you think about corn. Just a fact."

"You sound like you're proud of that fact"

"We're from Kansas, Sammy, corn is probably in our genes somewhere." Dean turns the heat on low for Sam's benefit, just in case he's still cold. It's worth a little sweat rolling down his back if Sam will take the jacket off and his arms will be out for everyone to see.

"Alright then, Child of The Corn – would we be white or gold?"

"Well, Sam, we're white people from the Midwest – white, baby, all the way." Sam's got really pretty pearly white come, now that Dean thinks about it. Shit, there goes all of his blood south again. That's gonna be awkward to explain if Sam spots his boner. Eh, it'll be okay; Sam's had his mouth and hands on his dick enough in the past that one boner isn't going to upset the balance of things. Hell, maybe it'll provoke him and they'll pull over on the side of the road and tear each other's clothes off.

Now that would be pretty damned great right about now…

Sam's smile grows until he's showing teeth, and the dimples are working their magic like nothing else. Dean kind of wants to lean over and kiss one.

"Fine, white we are – say, pull over a sec, will ya?"

"Something the matter?"

"Nah – just need something out of the trunk."

Dean obliges him, and ogles Sam's butt as he gets out of the car. Off comes the jacket and it gets tossed in the back seat. Score one for Dean, and a hundred for those veiny forearms.

Sam doesn't take long to poke around in the trunk, and he comes back bare footed. Dean isn't a foot guy by any stretch of the imagination, but shit if Sam doesn't have nice looking feet. They're long, kind of narrow, nice high arches – about as nice as feet can be. They disappear as Sam pulls on fresh socks and wriggles his toes in the end of them.

"Sorry – just didn't want to ride with boots on. Gets kind of hot." Sam pulls on his Pumas, brown ones with white trim, well-worn with use. Dean frowns at more of Sam being covered up anyway.

"Weirdo." Dean puts the car back out on the road towards the east, still thinking about Sam in various stages of undress.

Sam fishes his sunflower seeds out of his pocket and offers some to Dean. Dean turns him down, and Sam shrugs and mumbles "more for me."

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not… I'm still there, you know?"

Dean nods, only somewhat understanding. "Uh, I think so."

"Like, I'm still there. With her."

There it is. Sam's conscience has been working overtime again. Damned thing is too loud some days.

"Hey, take all the time you-"

"No, Dean, listen – I haven't forgotten about uh, us."

Now hold the fuck up a second – that wasn't something Dean was expecting to hear. Well, maybe part of him was, but not for Sam to just bring it up out of the blue like that. He figured this would be one of those conversations they have with the lights off and can't see each other's reactions. Tends to be the best setting for those talks, anyway.

"Sam-"

"No, just listen. I never really did, alright? And I'm not ignoring it, and us, just… she's still there in my mind. I saw her ghost when we left Stanford, or I think I saw her."

"Sammy, if you're seeing ghosts-"

"She's… she's dead, believe me." The weight in Sam's tone indicates to Dean that this is something he's been screwing up his courage to come out with, and Dean listens carefully, his attention held fully by Sam.

"And I just want to say that one day, maybe soon, I don't know I… I want to maybe think about getting back to… that. If Dad doesn't turn up… then…"

"Then what?"

"Then I don't know. Just… I'm here, Dean." Sam rests his hand on Dean's knee for a second, and the contact of his skin even through the denim of his jeans makes Dean's spine approach a less substantive consistency. Dean puts his hand on top of Sam's just as briefly, squeezes his fingers, and then he's pulling it away because it's just as well that he let Sam do this on his own time. If anything, it does answer some thoughts and questions Dean's been having. Okay, one question – but there are always more, mostly along the lines of "how soon" and "will you still talk dirty when you rail me" and "can I get a king sized bed at the next motel?"

Dean returns with his own smirk, putting his hand back on the wheel as he sets the cruise control.

"Yeah, I know you are baby boy."

This time, Sam actually smiles a little.

Dean wakes up in a hot sweat.

Cold sweats he's familiar with; either they're due to nightmares or the temperature in the room is weird and while mightily unpleasant, he does at least know what causes them.

This time it's just… hot.

That's the thing about getting a hotel near the damned swamp – the humidity and heat seeps into absolutely everything. The air conditioning had been going full tilt when he and Sam had clocked out around ten the previous night (they'd made that journey from Cali straight through, and it had been enough to drive them both slightly mad) and Dean had been sleeping awfully hard.

It was the damp sheets against his skin that had awakened him, sticking to his skin like a double skin and nearly choking him when he'd turned over.

Dawn is just beginning to peak through the windows, and the watery rays of light beam over to the old-style analog alarm clock; it reads just past six thirty. Too damned early, in Dean's opinion. No one is going to be awake to talk to yet anyway, as they still don't know what exactly their current case is. He's hoping to devise that quickly, so that they can hunt whatever the fuck it is and get the hell out of the fucking swamp. Dean's never been one for aquatic adventures like this one, and he suspects that they're going to be going hip wading later. And no, the irony is not lost on him, seeing as how he's the one who picked their current case.

Whoopty-fucking-do.

Dean sits up and the blankets pool around his waist. He can feel his boxers sticking to him with perspiration, pulled up one leg too tight and keeping his morning wood bent at a really uncomfortable angle. He reaches into the waistband to adjust himself, deciding that it'd just be easier to stick himself out through the fly. He grumbles a bit when he can't find the button, the mattress creaking under him as he kicks the blankets down the bed.

Goddamn Florida.

Dean stands and stretches, pushing his hair up where the gel-sticky spikes are clinging to his forehead, wincing slightly when he feels the cramp he developed driving three thousand plus miles pull. Sleep still clouds his eyes a little too, and right now the only mission he has in mind, and in very precise order, is to shower, get coffee, and then eat breakfast.

For good measure on the way to the bathroom, he stubs his toe on the end of Sam's bed and bites back a loud curse. Sam's a long, dark form underneath the blankets, the brown spill of his hair barely visible. How the hell Sam is managing to sleep cocooned like that is beyond Dean, and he doesn't even stir as Dean resumes his trip towards the head.

Their shower bags are already in the bathroom – thank you Sammy, for having that foresight – and Dean goes right for the stall, not even caring about the initial burst of cold water over his skin. If anything it wakes him up a little more.

When the water is rushing over his head and his brain is somewhere close to functional, he tries to think about their new job but finds himself focusing on Sam.

God, just being that close to Sam for a cross country trip had him spinning fantasies like nothing else, most of which ended in him being under Sam and covered in so many different bodily fluids that he was practically drowning. Sure, Sam had talked back and sniped and told war stories right with Dean but…

It wasn't underpinned by the attraction, the constant little touches, the feeling of _together_ that Dean misses like hell. He didn't try to touch Sam or anything – not even so much as clap his shoulder or put his hand on his knee to get his attention. It's like there's a line down the middle of their relationship now, with Sam on one side and Dean on the other; Dean's afraid to even try cross it. Sam's always been good at retreating into himself but this is just… well, really fucking hard to live with. It'd be better if Dean didn't know what it was like to have Sam like _that_ , but he does. He remembers intimately how Sam's lips feel against his, the way he buries his face in Dean's neck when he's about to come, the way he gets quiet and cuddly after sex and the never-does-quit sex drive he'll get when Dean's got him good and aroused.

Dean kind of wants to hit a wall because Sam's ruined him for anyone else. Hell, he was from the start when he'd first kissed those sweet sixteen year old lips – Sam's birthday, actually – and the kid had spilled his guts and told Dean everything he wanted to do to him, crying with trepidation because he was afraid and shit, Dean had hung on to every word and confessed right back to him. The first week like that – that trying to sate long-quelled desire– Dean still bears a couple scars as reminders where Sam bit him when Dean made him come. They're in his left shoulder, clear as day and every time he touches them arousal pulls hard in his gut.

It's just reflex when he leans against the wall and starts to stroke his cock, thinking about that body Sam's been hiding ever since he and Dean joined back up last November. Yeah, Sam's not let himself be so much as shirtless around Dean the whole time. It's not like Dean's going to jump him – not without his explicit permission first.

Dean kind of wishes he had a foreskin like Sam does right now; the way he's stroking is intimation of how Sam does it, rolling that long, loose skin between his fingers and shit, the image of Sam just playing with himself like that is enough to make Dean's toes curl. He can't imagine the conversation Mom and Dad had where they decided to leave Sam uncut but he's glad for it anyway; Sam's sensitive down there, and Dean remembers pressing that little advantage as often as he could.

"Gonna make me come, baby boy" Dean whispers to the faded tile around him. He feels it low in his stomach first, warm and overwhelming, and four days of travel and road and Sam being way too close does it for him, heavy spurts landing between his feet where the water carries it down the drain. Naked, nineteen year old Sammy is still front and center in his mind's eye though, and even after he's finished he doesn't feel sated.

Still, he finishes washing up and tries to pull himself together. He half-hums "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good," quieting down when he comes out of the bathroom.

The sun's come up a little more as he emerges, the light peeking through the slats so that he can maybe avoid tripping over Sam's bed again.

He nearly does anyway.

Sam's on his back now, the blankets having slid off his chest and down his belly, revealing a whole lot of abdominal muscles that Dean definitely doesn't remember seeing and even a little chest hair between Sam's fucking beautiful pecs. It almost makes Dean drop the towel from around his waist because holy fucking shit, Sam could be the cover model for next month's Men's Health. He's still fast asleep, his hair falling over his forehead and those massive, sensitive hands folded on his belly.

Dean's tempted to grab his phone and snap a photo for posterity but that just wouldn't be fair to Sam, now would it?

Instead he moves as quietly as he can and exchanges the towel for underwear and a t-shirt before going back over to Sam's bed and sitting down on his right hand side. He takes a breath before he reaches up and very, very gently pushes Sam's hair back from his eyes, a soft "Sammy" on his lips. Sam stirs just a little, his nose wrinkling as Dean does it again. When they were kids he used to wake Sam like this all the time, going for a softer approach than John's gruff – and loud - "wake up."

It takes a few tries before Sam's eyes open halfway and he fixes Dean with a look of sleepy confusion.

"Hey," Sam says, stretching his arms out to either side. It makes his chest and stomach stand out in relief and Dean's mouth goes a little dry.

"Rise and shine, Muscles, we have shit to do." Dean takes his hand away but doesn't get up from the bed.

Sam smiles at the nickname. "I thought I was hiding it better than that."

"Sam, please – I've been watching your shirts fight you since Thanksgiving." That had been the day of the first almost kiss. Dean hadn't slept that night.

"It was supposed to be a secret." Sam pulls the sheets up to his chest and turns over to look up at Dean. Shit, he's gorgeous, with those half-hooded eyes and his sleep mussed hair.

"Secret?"

"Yeah – kind of uh, wanted you to see me when we… you know." Sam looks away and pulls the blankets up so that his toes stick out down from the other end.

Dean ignores the flutter in his heart and grins. "Too late, Sammy, I already saw. Good to know you're ripped though, you automatically get grave digging duty now."

"Shut up." Sam shoves at Dean playfully and decides to come out from under the blankets, clad in gym shorts that don't do a lot to hide his bulge. Dean really, really wishes he had x-ray vision right now.

"Hey, I'll just admire the view and be as quiet as you want me to be."

Sam just chuckles and shakes his head, the door to the bathroom closing with a soft click. Dean flops down on the bed with a huff and silently petitions the sky with a million different questions, namely why he doesn't have Sam back yet.

The dingy ceiling tiles don't bother to deign him with an answer.

Nearly two weeks go by without any success on their hunt.

It takes a few days to determine what the hell it is, for one thing – as it turned out, it was a water wraith. Keyword being was – twelve deaths and that many more days later, it's dead as a doornail. Dean just wishes he didn't have the lingering reminders of mosquito bites and leech marks and goddamn swamp foot. He despises aquatic adventures, especially ones in where the ground isn't so much dirt as just slightly less waterlogged grass.

Not to mention the fucking alligators and snakes that honestly Dean wishes had been the least of his worries.

Sam was the one who actually killed it while Dean fended off the local wildlife. He definitely saw a few pythons mingling with the water moccasins – he'd sooner have been killed by the wraith, honestly. Death by venomous snake isn't at the top of his list of "ways to go out of this world."

Of course, watching Sam get wet and wild had been fun. Water dripping off of that rippling body, even if it was swamp water, looks damned good. It makes his shirt cling to his back and his jeans hug his ass. Maybe Sam had thrown in some squats in the process of becoming He-Man, much to his benefit – Sam's got the sort of ass that makes even the girls jealous.

Dean is of course kind of beat up about more people dying, but folks are persistent, braving the swamp. Hell, they encountered some of them while hunting, patrolling the water in their boat and brandishing shotguns at anything that moved. Add that to Dean's list of Things That Make Florida Charming – he and Sam nearly got their heads blown off due to itchy trigger fingers.

"Next time we're going to the desert," Dean announces. They're at one of the two bars in town, picked on the sole merit of it having slightly more light streaming from its windows and that it had has better mosquito netting.

Sam's sitting across from him, scrolling away on his laptop. Yes, even this dive has wi-fi. "Well, lucky us Dean – looks like we have ourselves a chupacabra." Sam spins his screen around and peers at him over the top, eyebrows raised in elation. Dean doesn't have to see his dimples to know that they are there.

"Hell fucking yes." The page is out of Arizona, where there aren't any goddamn swamps or bugs. Well, maybe some scorpions but at least Dean can see those before they land on him and start sucking the lifeblood from him.

"Says here it's taken out four people already." Sam takes a long swig of beer, the condensation making his fingers cling the bottle tight as his throat bobs. Dean could honestly film Sammy drinking and just loop that for an hour or two while he jacks off.

"Sounds uh…" Dean forgets how to speak for a moment as Sam sets his bottle down and licks his lips, looking satisfied. They've both had three each and Sam looks a little buzzed.

"Sounds what, Dean?" Sam leans in a little, closing his laptop. Dean looks up from his chin and shiny, pink wet lips up to his eyes, dilated from the booze but still shining bright. Dean swallows against the heavy feeling in his chest and leans across the little table. Before he even realizes what he's doing he's reaching up to touch Sam's cheek with the palm of his hand, rubbing his finger over Sam's suntanned skin.

Sam doesn't make any effort to pull away. "Sammy, I don't-"

"Do it, Dean."

Dean's leaning into the kiss with as much grace as he can, not wanting to knock over any bottles. Sam puts his hand on Dean's wrist, keeping them both steady as his tongue touches Dean's, and Dean moans.

Loudly.

Sam is the one who deepens the kiss first, tasting, testing, and Dean sees fireworks behind his eyelids. Every kiss Sam has ever given him has been positively electrifying, and Dean's tried to commit every single one to memory. It's been a daunting task because there have been so _many._

Dean feels the exhale of breath against his face as Sam pulls away, his mouth still open as he looks into Dean's eyes, and just for a second Dean sees sixteen year old Sammy, afraid and elated all at once because he's _kissing his big brother_ and then he's gone, behind the façade Sam's tried to put up, and Dean's the only one who sees right through it.

"Dean I'm, I…" Sam pulls back, not fast enough to where he looks like he regrets it – not completely anyway – but whatever was supposed to have been on the end of that sentence couldn't have been a positive. Dean stands there, looking at him, his hands still on Sam's face. Normally Dean knows of _something_ to do but right now? Dean's at a loss. That doesn't normally happen with Sam.

"'S okay, Sammy." The words seem more than trite but it breaks the silence, to a degree.

Sam just shuts his mouth, then hurriedly gathers up his laptop and pad and stuffs them into his backpack, making a beeline for the door through the other patrons. Dean turns and looks at them, more than a few stunned expression amongst the faces fixed upon him.

Dean smiles weakly, offering up "we're still working through some things – excuse me." Dean plunks a twenty down on the bar top and tells the bartender to keep the change, hurrying after Sam.

A light rain has started to fall and it just drives the humidity up, and Dean's got his jacket off within ten seconds of setting foot outside. They walked to the bar – only three blocks from their lodgings – and it's not exactly like Sam has that much of a head start on him. He doesn't think he'd go back to the hotel, so he sets off in the direction heading away from it. He remembers a small park on the same road and knowing Sam, he's probably headed there to do that dangerous thing called thinking.

Dean doesn't like it when Sam thinks too much, because it normally means serious conversations and a lot of weird silence and Sam being inaccessible, no matter how persistent and aggravating Dean is.

There's also the lightheaded feeling he's got not so much from drinking but because he kissed Sam – no, he _Frenched_ him. That's never not made him dizzy, because for one Sam's a really, really great kisser and it must be something in their DNA that always leaves Dean wanting a lot more. God, the hours he's lost over the course of his life to necking with that boy, it's obscene. Good thing he doesn't regret a single second of that time.

He finds Sam in the park, under a willow tree with his backpack held to his chest and his face turned towards the sky. Dean approaches quietly, ignoring the rain falling on them as he plops down next to Sam.

"Actually feels slightly less shitty here with the rain." Dean says, kind of softly. He's not sitting close enough to touch Sam, but definitely within earshot. Sam doesn't look at him, just keeps looking up at the sky and lets the rain plaster his hair that much more to his head. Dean blows out his breath and closes his eyes, hesitating on what to say next. Sam could be helpful and at least acknowledge his presence, but that's not happened yet either.

"Sammy, you can talk to me, if you need to. I mean, I don't know what to-"

"I wasn't going to say 'sorry.'" Sam's still looking up at the sky, but it's a start at least. "I'm… I'm never sorry about that."

That sounds hopeful, but Dean doesn't let it show. He leans in a little closer, hoping Sam will pick up on his psychic signals to elaborate. "Go on."

Sam finally looks down and scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking monumentally tired. "When I was still with her, Dean… it was hard." Sam bends his head and stares at the ground. "Not because of her, but because of us. You."

Dean nods, trying to pick out the direction this conversation is about to go hurtling in. Dean is a gambling man, on occasion, and he's betting right now that the next words out of Sam's mouth are going to hurt like hell.

"You just said you weren't sorry."

"No! I… I'm not, Dean, that's what I'm saying. I'm… god, I'm so fucking-" Sam wipes rainwater and the start of tears out of his eyes. "I'm sorry for what I put her through."

Dean does reach up and put an arm on Sam's shoulder, keeping it there. Sam doesn't push him away.

"Sam, she wasn't in an abusive relationship, I'm sure of that."

Sam shakes his head. "She was… I tried to make it work, to love her the way I should have and I… I did, I tried but Dean…" Sam finally turns to look at him, and the sorrow in Sam's eyes is enough to make Dean's heart slow because it's so goddamn _sincere._

"It's nothing that you did, I swear, I just… it's so hard to be with someone else when…"

"When your heart's in a different place?" Dean feels his throat constrict with the effort to get the words out.

Sam nods.

"Baby boy, you… you didn't do anything wrong."

"But I did, Dean!" Sam stands up, his backpack falling to the side. "I deceived her, lied to her, and led her on for over two fucking years and I didn't have the fucking guts to end it." Sam swallows, using the back of his hand to wipe his eyes again.

"And she died, Dean. She fucking died and it's my fault and now…"

"Now you can't ask for her forgiveness." Dean stands up, his fists bunched, restraining himself from rushing at Sam and holding him until the sun comes up.

Sam nods again, sniffling. "I'm sorry about all this Dean, really."

Dean takes a step closer, hesitant in case Sam bolts. "Don't have to be Sammy. Past is the past."

Sam shrugs, and the gesture just makes him look even sadder. "I just wanted it to end differently, is all. Just end it and say that I was sorry and let me deal with my own shit by myself."

Dean's in arm's reach, and he tries to still his hand as he reaches out to take Sam's in his. "What can I do to help, Sammy, all you gotta do is tell me."

Sam looks up, squeezing Dean's fingers. "Just wait, Dean, and don't fucking die on me, okay?"

When he finally does hug Sam, Dean whispers "I promise" over and over again until Sam's tears have dried.

Dean still kind of feels like he's fighting an uphill battle. Not even Sisyphus had it this bad, and he was stuck with the task of trying to roll a boulder up a hill for eternity, except Dean's not trying to move a boulder. He's just trying to help Sam to an emotionally better place so that he isn't so distant. Hell, Sam's his best friend on top of being his brother and lover, and Dean misses that. He misses it _a lot._

They'd had a long heart to heart after they'd come in from the rain, and Dean got more of an idea of what's going on in the kid's head. There's guilt there, a great deal of it. Not to mention a ton of blame that Dean secretly feels at least a little responsible for. Some days the kid's too good for his own self, and as admirable as it is it's a trait that's also a pain in the ass. When Sam's down, he is _down._

The ride to New Mexico hadn't been stone silent, thankfully, and the times Dean could draw Sam out of his shell had been pleasant. Dean had been careful about not discussing the past too much, because sometimes it's eggshells of the most fragile kind that they have to walk on with each other. Sam had smiled, touched Dean's arm a lot, and maybe even blushed when Dean had called him baby boy. It's very, very slow work, but it's work Dean will gladly do, if not for his sake then for Sam's.

If only stalking through the desert was as fun.

Arizona's just plain fucking hot anyway, and down on the border with Mexico there had been more than just chupacabras to worry about; they don't give a shit about the boundaries between nations, but the United States Border Guard sure does. He and Sam probably raised enough red flags, especially since they could very easily have the FBI after them in a heartbeat. They aren't trying to hop the fence, just track down a literally bloodthirsty, supposedly mythological beast. They'd buy that, right?

They've been out here all damn day, all of their water gone, and Sam keeps stopping every few minutes to listen. They've both cut their palms, just a little, so that the scent of blood is on the air – gotta draw the damn thing out somehow. Trouble is, it's not the chupacabra being stubborn that's got Dean agitated. Well, okay to an extent it dies – no, it's Sam, in a cowboy hat and tight jeans and a tank top, glistening with sweat and sunblock. He also keeps using his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, flashing abs and a treasure trail that Dean doesn't remember being nearly so dark and thick. Just another reminder of how much time Dean's lost and how much Sam's grown up. He remembers when that belly was smooth and so easy to leave bite marks on.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters to himself. He's hot and aggravated and lo and behold, horny. Sam in a tank top and jeans isn't even a thing he knew he really wanted up until now but shit if it isn't. Dean's entirely too willing to risk the burns on his back for a roll in the sand.

Then again, it probably wouldn't make rimming very pleasant. Sand in the teeth is a nasty enough experience without it being intentional that Dean doesn't want to experience it voluntarily.

Sam stops and turns to face him, tilting his hat back. "What are you grumbling about?" He's got a pistol in the hand that isn't seeping blood. Dean kind of wants him to kick his legs apart and run the hot metal over his inner thighs.

"I'm tired and hot and I want you to fuck me, if you want the honest to God truth." Dean swats at a sand fly and readjusts his thigh holster. "Why?"

Sam chuckles, a rare sound these days. "Just wondering, is all. But if those are your only complaints…"

"Then we're good, right? Better than having a monster come out of nowhere and violently murder us?"

Dean feels his blood go cold when he realizes Sam is staring past him without any sort of levity in his eyes.

"It's behind me, isn't it?," Dean whispers.

Sam gives a barely perceptible nod and raises his gun.

It's a hideous, brownish-green thing, snuffling the dirt and scratching at it with long, scythe-like claws. Dean swallows against his rising bile, because seriously, that thing is fucking nasty looking. It's obviously on their trail, too, it just hasn't seen them yet. Hell, maybe it thinks they're a mirage. Dean can only hope, right?

"I don't know if I can get an accurate shot at this range," Sam whispers.

"Like hell you can't, you're a better shot than me." Dean pulls the hammer back as silently as he can, and even then the resulting click sounds deafening. He just hopes the wind doesn't carry the sound towards it.

Two seconds later, Dean need hot have worried about it hearing the gun, because it locks eyes on them and is hopping jerkily towards them. Very, very quickly.

"Dean, _move!_ "

Dean does exactly that, and the report of Sam's pistol over the open ground is thunderous. It wings the chupacabra – which only makes it angrier – and then Dean takes aim, trying to will his feet into moving at the same time. It doesn't exactly work as planned.

Sam's Desert Eagle barks again, and this time he hits the chupacabra in mid-air, center mass-

And it lands right on top of Dean.

Dean moves, fast.

He can feel teeth starting to sink into his neck and liquid on his back where it's starting to bleed from the wound Sam put in it. Dean flings himself to the ground, primal instinct tell him that yes, his weight will crush it, only for that plan to be foiled when it shrieks – another hideous sound – and stands on his chest, claws coming for his face-

And then it no longer has a head, the body tumbling sideways off of him to the ground, Sam standing there not ten feet away. It's not until Dean actually regains some sense of his surrounding that he realizes his ears are ringing like crazy. The gun is literally still smoking as Sam closes the gap between them quickly and helps Dean to an upright position.

"Are you okay" sounds like Sam is shouting at him underwater; the fact that he can hear _anything_ right now is remarkable enough. Dean mouths back "yes" and Sam's hands don't leave his body until they're both standing again. It's an emergency, yes, but the contact feels nice anyway.

Dean sees Sam mouth the word "shit" as he palpates the wound on Dean's neck, his fingers coming away bloody. They don't have a first aid kit and it's easily four miles back to the Impala, so Sam takes out a bandana and holds it to the gash, thankfully not that deep, and Dean leans his head over to keep it in place. Man, what'd he give for a little medical tape right now. Still, Dean knows it's not long before the chupacabra's saliva immobilizes him, and that's not going to be good. Already he's starting to feel a little stiff, so, yes, now would be an _excellent_ time to leave.

The buzzards will get the corpse before any border guards find it – like the gunshots probably weren't heard all the way to goddamn Phoenix.

Dean does his best to keep pace with Sam, but the blood loss and the heat are making him feel lightheaded, and he's starting to not be able to feel his toes. Huh, that's a weird sensation; it's like they're there but also not. Oh great, and now he's starting to hear Sam talking about how he needs an antidote and how fucking dumb they are to _not carry more water_ and…

Hey, he can hear again.

"Sammy," Dean tries. He has to concentrate to get his mouth muscles to work, but they do.

"Shit, Dean, are you alright?" Sam's hat is slightly askew and Dean reaches up to straighten it.

"I…" he takes a deep breath, more than a touch alarmed at how difficult it is to inhale right this moment. "I need help walking, can't feel my" – Dean tries to wiggle his toes, and if something happens his brain certainly doesn't register it – "can't feel my toes."

Sam looks at Dean, then at the direction the Impala lies in. Whatever is going through that pretty head of his has to be crazy, because Sam turns back to Dean and gives him the same look that Dean's in the past seen right before he's tried to lift him to fuck against a wall.

He's not far off the mark.

Sam hefts him up on his back, gathering Dean's arms around his chest as he tries to encourage his fingers to stay together. Dean's glad he can't feel too much right now, because he's pretty sure this is wildly uncomfortable; Sam isn't all soft edges, no he's hard muscle and biceps and _really, really strong hands_ and-

"Do you have a boner right now?"

Dean does at least feel himself blanche. "Uh… I don't know if I can answer that question honestly?" It's entirely true, from the waist down there isn't much sensation. If he does, it's absolutely Sam's fault for doing a pretty damned good Incredible Hulk display of strength.

Sam shifts him up a little, and nods. "You do. You're hard right now, Dean."

Dean grins. "Does this mean I get a blowjob?"

"I'm more concerned about the fact that you can't feel your own dick." Sam starts walking as fast as he can, and Dean wills his fingers to hold on tighter.

"In an 'I'll check it out as soon as possible way' or a 'this is likely a dire medical emergency way' – it's all about context, Sammy." Dean starts to gulp for breath and where he's got his head leaned over to keep the bandana in place, well that's starting to become harder and harder to manage. He's not experienced a ton of monsters that do this, and he's suddenly kind of happy about that, because it's goddamned awful. Put chupacabras at the top of his shit list.

"Uh, the latter – that means the poison is working fast."

"Cause I'm so vascular." Dean drops the bandana and feels the blood soak his t-shirt even more. Wonderful.

"Yeah, sure you are, Mr. Eats a Cheeseburger and Chili Fries For Every Meal." Sam hefts him up higher and Dean's chin bumps the back of his head.

"Sorry, baby boy – kind of losing control here."

Sam just grunts and starts to move faster, the hot sun beating down on them like it's daring them to collapse out here in no man's land. And to think, some parts of the country still have snow on the ground.

By the time Dean's poured in to the backseat of the Impala, he can't feel anything except for his tongue against the roof of his mouth – and even that's only because it's swollen. He stopped talking about half a mile back, all of his energy focused on clinging to Sam and breathing through his nose as best he can.

Sam looks absolutely terrified as he plunders the trunk, and Dean hears him cursing at how much his hands are shaking. Dean feels a little more sorry than usual for him, having to deal with the normal amount of crap in his life on top of Dean being paralyzed – which will hopefully only be temporary. They do know about chupacabra saliva, and Sam had made up a bunch of antidote beforehand.

Dean doesn't get to think too much more about it, because a moment late Sam's basically got him in his lap as he jabs a long ass needle into the space right above the bite. Dean _does_ feel that, and he'd almost rather have the chupacabra bite him again.

Five agonizing, screaming til his throat is raw as shit minutes later, Dean can feel most of his extremities. He promptly doubles over and vomits out of the open door until he's completely numb again.

"Want the good news?" Sam helps him sit up, sliding over in the seat so that he can clean and dress the wound on Dean's neck.

"And what the _fuck_ would that be?" Dean doesn't really feel like playing a guessing game right now. He wants all the water in the whole world and his neck to be replaced so that it stops fucking hurting.

"I'm still a really good shot and well, you're supposed to do that. Uh, throw up I mean."

"Just fucking peachy." Dean winces as Sam sutures his skin, hoping that when he's done he looks more badass than just beat up.

Sam gives him a mostly brotherly shove as he cuts the thread. "Why don't you hand me the keys and I'll drive us somewhere with air conditioning."

Dean waggles his eyebrows. "You'll have to get 'em out of my pocket."

"We have some tranquilizers too, and we've already seen once today that I'm a pretty fucking good shot." Sam shoves his hand in his right pocket anyway and fishes around with those magnificent fingers until he locates them. God, what Dean would give for a handy right now from this guy.

"I'm not giving you a handjob."

"Did I say that out loud?" Dean doesn't remember saying it, but the world is also starting to go a little dark. Definitely not time for that yet.

"Water," Sam mutters. He reaches over the seat into the cooler and holds a bottle to Dean's lips, keeping one arm around him until Dean's brain fires on at least a few relays and he holds it himself. He makes sure to touch Sam's fingers for a second before Sam's pulled away, looking like his own throat and mouth have just gone dry.

"I saw that," Dean says.

"Dean, not right now, okay?" Sam's voice takes on that shattery tone that means control isn't entirely within his bounds.

Dean sits up a little more and does his best not to slur. Man, blood loss in any quantity is a bitch. "Not right now what?"

Sam sighs, trying to wash Dean's blood off of his hands with an alcohol swab. "Just… drink your water."

Dean notices right before he passes out in the back seat the way Sam tries to move and hide his erection – Dean feels inwardly jubilant for it. That, at least, is good news.

Then again, had Sam been in his lap, Dean would be hard too.

As per custom (and reflex) at the end of a successful hunt, Sam and Dean go out to get blotto.

Well, Dean will drink, and Sam will scrawl notes or research or whatever. All he knows is that if Sam wants to join in, he will. If not, he'll mind his own business and then Dean will hang all over him back to the hotel.

The town doesn't have a great choice of watering holes, so they go to the one with a more varied clientele, the ones where the maybe not legal immigrants and sketchy characters hang out. He and Sam are legally dead in a few states, so this one ought to fit well. There's also the promise of some really, really good tequila, and the stuff always makes Dean's Spanish flow that much more easily.

Dean's had three shots – which is enough for now, he thinks – and is still trying to remember the names of the folks he's playing cards with. So far they've just been calling each other "hombre" and bantering back and forth over what's become a rather large pot. Texas hold 'em doesn't get louder than this, and it has to be going well since no one's pulled a gun out yet.

Sam's across the bar, drinking beer and trying to not look conspicuous; he and Dean are two of like, six white people here and no doubt he feels self-conscious. Dean would gladly help him take his mind off his troubles via whatever drink he would let him imbibe off of his body; Sam's abs are perfect for body shots. They're definitely going to try that whenever they're both in the same mindset again. For now, booze is a really subpar substitute for the taste of Sam's flesh under his tongue.

"Hey, ese, you gonna stare at eso hombre or play some cards?"

Dean turns to the source of the voice addressing him. "Sorry – just checking up on him."

The guy – who Dean thinks whose name is Geraldo – grins a little too lasciviously for Dean's comfort. "He your sweetheart?"

Dean tries to cover his blush with consternation at a stranger trying to pry. "Uh, business partner."

"Looks like you got the hots for him, huh?" Geraldo elbows him and winks. Dean feels his stomach turn a little – whatever he and Sam do (or have done or will do, just depending on how the future is looking) is absolutely none of this guy's business.

"Why don't we play cards, _ese._ " Dean nearly bends his in half and tries hard to not stare at Sam. Not an easy task, since Sam's still sporting a tank top and drinking beer so pornographically that Dean gets thirsty just watching him. God, when did Sam go from slender and twinky to Centerfold Beefcake and how the fuck did Dean miss it? Someone ought to be arrested for not informing him of his little brother's transformation.

Right – that whole two years where they didn't so much as speak to each other. That was a thing that happened. Dean's still harboring anger over that, because that's nearly eight hundred days that Sam wasn't in his life.

Dean really feels like he needs another drink.

Right as he's about to bow out of the card game – three hundred dollars richer, mind you – and get another drink, Dean watches sex on legs breeze past him – and right on to Sam's table. Hell, she's drop-dead gorgeous, long black hair, tanned skin, and how Dean missed her on the way in is enough to make him wonder if he's not gone a little blind.

Sam catches Dean's eye before they see Miss Hot Pants, and the look of "help me" on his face is as clear as day across the bar.

Dean stands back and watches instead, because this could be interesting.

"Looks like Stella's making herself known to your boy over there," Geraldo offers.

"Stella?" Dean's fingers grip the back of the chair he was just occupying as he watches Stella seat herself at Sam's table.

"Yeah – bar owner's daughter. Handles the books and stuff. Smart, you know?"

Well that's one of three of Sam's requirements to be interested in a lady. Shit, Dean kind of wishes he had boobs and long black hair right now to give this girl a run for her money.

"That so?" Dean picks up his beer stein and swallows the last few drops, jealousy starting to make his blood run hot because this girl is definitely giving Sam the full once-over, flipping her hair and crossing her legs – Sam seems to be warming up to her as well.

Not good, not good _at all._

"Yeah – she likes 'em tall, hombre. Better cut in before she goes home with your boy. Doesn't take no for an answer, _comprende?_ "

Dean understands, alright. He's had more than a few "doesn't take no for an answer" experiences.

"Thanks for the game," Dean growls. He walks so that Sam hears him coming before he sees him – if he's not too caught up in _Stella_ that is. It'll be over Dean's dead body if someone sleeps with Sam again before he does.

Of course, that's also completely up to Sam. Dean can't say shit about staying faithful, physically at least. Still, eighty percent of the time is pretty good, right?

"Uh, hey Dean," Sam grins as Dean stops next to his table. The dimples are working all of their magic charms right now, and Dean has to make himself look at Stella.

That's a mistake, too.

"Oh, _this_ is Dean." Stella stands up, her high heels making her nose even with Dean's. The low cut top she's wearing draws Dean's eyes down before he ever makes it to her face. That too, is a mistake, because she has the kind of brown eyes that make Dean's insides melt. Her "come hither" smile doesn't make matters easier, either. It makes him feel his blood loss from earlier that much more acutely, because between her and Sam, Dean's got what has to be a painfully obvious erection.

"Yeah, I'm Dean, and you're…" Dean pretends to not know as they shake hands.

"Stella. It's a pleasure."

Stella gives Dean the same once over she gave Sam. He feels more scrutinized than objectified, because this woman obviously knows what she's doing. Man, Geraldo was right.

"So Dean – I understand that you and Sam are… at odds right now?'

Thanks for the secrecy, Sam.

"Don't see how that's your business, lady."

Stella smiles, unperturbed. Sam just shrugs, gives Dean a surprisingly untroubled "why the hell not" expression. Isn't he supposed to be in the midst of loss and depression and _not_ getting excited about sex with _Stella?_ Sexy or not, she's still not… not him. It had been easier when Sam had been younger and couldn't go in bars with easy women and Dean's influence hadn't rubbed off on him nearly as much.

The worst part is, he's not getting a sense of spite from Sam, at all. It's probably healthy that Sam's even exhibiting interest _period_. Maybe a couple rounds in the sack with Stella – and hopefully Dean at the same time – will help him work through some stuff. Sammy's not exactly been with anyone in the last five months, and Dean knows that for a fact.

Stella's smile doesn't fade in the least. "I didn't want to encroach on your territory, is all." Stella stretches, Dean's eyes going to her breasts. God fucking dammit, he's stuck between a rock and a hard place here.

Dean bites his tongue and makes himself look her in the eye. "I'm not jealous."

"You look jealous to me." Stella sits back down, crossing those shapely legs and knowing full well that she's hot shit. "That could be interesting though."

Dean looks over to Sam, who has not offered anything helpful. He's peeling the label off of his beer bottle and doing his best to look disinterested. Come on Sammy, any other time you'd be fending her off and trying to sit me in your lap. "Depends on what Sammy thinks."

"Sammy?"

"Yes, Sammy."

"And only Dean gets to call me that." Sam's interjection makes them both turn around and look at him. "But yeah, Dean, I want to sleep with Stella."

Dean's throat goes dry like someone's just poured sand in his mouth. "Sammy-"

"And I want you to watch."

Stella, instead of looking incredulous, smiles even wider. "I like an audience."

"Sam, I'm not-" Dean starts to protest but the non-thinking parts of his body have already agreed. "Okay."

"Really?" Sam looks at Dean like he wasn't expecting him to agree. Alright then. "I mean, Dean I was just-"

"No, I want to watch. As good as it is being in the action, it has to be pretty damned hot to see it. Just a warning, Stella." Dean's grin exceeds anything Stella can manage.

"And what's that?"

"Last I measured, Sammy here was nine by six – think you can handle that?"

Stella, to her credit, does manage to look at least a little perturbed.

Sam just turns bright red.

Sam, being the most sober, drives them back to the motel. Dean rides in the front seat and tries not to rub his dick, while Stella sits in the back and retouches her makeup. She honestly didn't need it, because she's one of those girls who just glows without help. Dean, in another time and place, would probably trying to get her in the sack for himself.

Not tonight though. Sam knows what he's doing, and Dean's almost positive his motivations aren't to make him jealous; it's extremely unusual for Sam to just indulge in casual sex with someone he barely knows. Moreover, Sam keeps looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye and licking his lips; that boner in Sam's pants isn't for their friend in the backseat, and Dean's sure of it.

Dean gets out of the car first, opening the door for Stella when they're parked. She unfolds herself and struts towards the door, ass shaking and hair flowing in the breeze. Dean moans more out of reflex than actual interest – she is a hot piece of ass. Trouble is, Sammy's even hotter, and there isn't ever going to be someone who takes that title away from him.

"Dean," Sam says, almost a whisper. He's not even a foot from Dean's shoulder, his hands shaking.

"What's up, baby boy?" He starts to reach for Sam, but stops himself. God, Sam looks incredible right now, the bright moon backlighting him and making his shoulders look even broader.

"I… I have to do this, okay? This doesn't mean-"

"I get it, Sammy, I do." It hurts to understand why he's about to do this, and maybe then he might not be truly aware of what's going on in Sam's head. All the same, Sam's probably going to explain it to him later.

Sam closes the gap between them and hugs Dean, squeezing him so tight that Dean feels Sam's hard-on against his thigh. Dean's willpower is tested mightily in that moment, because it'd be so easy to just reach between them, undo Sam's belt, and drop right to his knees there in the parking lot. Stella's there, out of earshot but still there, and Dean just pretends she doesn't exist.

"You better go to her, Sammy." Dean whispers it against his neck, his lips a bare millimeter above the surface of his skin. Sam smells like sweat and booze and bar, on top of his shampoo and the desert heat that clings to his skin; it's an extremely powerful aphrodisiac, and Dean could probably come in his pants right now if Sam so much as snapped his fingers and told him to.

Sam inhales through his nose, hard, and lets Dean go. He fumbles with the key to the door, and Sam watches as Stella puts her fingers on Sam's bicep, rubs and caresses the muscle that _Dean_ was the first one to kiss, caress, and appreciate, before Sam even _had_ massive guns like that. His blood boils with jealousy, and he must growl loud enough for Sam to hear because he looks back at him.

Dean's frustration lessens when Sam licks his lips and mouths "c'mon" at him.

Sam lifts Stella right as Dean walks into the room and presses her against the wall; she looks absolutely tiny in Sam's big hands, his mouth on her neck and collarbones. Dean can't help but touch himself when he notices the tent of Sam's jeans, his cock pointed down and to the right. Stella's eyes are closed but Sam's are open halfway, watching Dean. Dean undoes his jeans and steps out of them, his own arousal making his boxer briefs feel way too tight. Sam moans when Dean palms himself, lifting his shirt over his head and pinching his nipples; he got to be good at turning Sam a very long time ago, and the same tricks still work. Sam's teeth bite a mark into Stella's shoulder, and that only seems to goad her further – the woman's a beast, obviously.

Except she's met more than her match in Sam. Sammy'll outdo her any day of the week.

"Yeah, that's it Sammy, bite her," he whispers, and he's not sure if Sam hears him or not. Stella's fingernails scrape across Sam's shoulders, and Sam growls into her skin. It makes Dean jump just a little, and Sam kicks into high gear, moving from the wall and dropping Stella onto the bed.

Stella's hair is a mess now, Sam's hand having been holding the back of her head while he'd ravished her neck. She looks at Dean, smirks, and then turns her attention back to Sam. Dean's blood pressure raises a few more notches, his pulse a little too loud in his own ears. God, he'd give anything to be back in that position right now, with Sam standing over him, promising to ruin him beyond repair.

"You gonna get naked, ese?" Stella's looking up at Sam, taking off her top and bra in one smooth motion. Dean's mouth falls open at the sight of her breasts because holy _shit_ they're pretty damned awesome.

Sam's not even looking at her, his attention divided between Dean and getting her shoes off. "Be patient," is all he says. Dean plops himself down in the chair across from the bed, down to just his amulet and underwear. He makes sure he's holding Sam's eyes as he makes his cock point up, tenting his underwear, stroking nice and slow. Shit, Sam's not even naked yet and Dean can feel the precome coating his fingers.

"Better do as she says, Sammy." Dean feels a little betrayed at the roughness of his own voice - oh well.

Sam stands up, dropping Stella's heels to the floor. The tank top comes off, Sam grabbing the hem of it and pulling it forward. Dean chokes back a squeak because even that simple motion gets him even more hot and bothered; it's the _confidence_ that Sam's exuding more than his physical appearance – although that's certainly not ever going to count against him. It had been there when he was younger, just now it's… a lot more honed and focused.

Stella whistles low, sitting up to touch Sam's abs. He flinches a little, his skin oversensitive. He looks down at her hand, her fingers small against the broad, flat planes of his torso.

"No wonder he looks so mad right now," Stella murmurs, her touch moving down towards Sam's waistband.

Sam traps her wrist before he she can get his belt undone. "Lay back."

Stella complies, fast, and Dean involuntarily tries to make himself slump down in the chair. Man, if Sam would let himself do it he'd be a scary, wonderful dom.

Maybe he and Sam ought to talk that over once they have their shit straightened out.

Stella does as she's told, and Sam takes her pants and panties off. Dean gets a good look at her, all shaved and smooth. There's a scar on her abdomen from either an appendectomy or some other surgery, a line of white against the tan. Seriously, another time and place and Dean would be boning her until the cows came home.

Sam hums appreciatively, especially when she spreads her legs and touches herself. Sam licks his lips as she lets him see how wet she is, replacing her hand with his own. Dean leans up, watching, mesmerized, as two of Sam's fingers slide into her.

"She feel good, Sammy?" Dean pulls his underwear down and shakes it off one foot, his own legs spread as wide as they can comfortably go. Sam growls, looking at Dean's hard cock, his eyes following the motion of Dean's hand as he moves it up and down.

"Not as good as you look right now, Dean, shit." Sam uses his free hand to get his jeans off, tugging them down to his knees, all the while keeping two fingers inside Stella. Stella's writhing, Sam stroking her g-spot, her hands gripping his biceps. Dean kind of feels sorry for her, seeing as how neither of them are really looking at her.

"C'mon, Sammy, wanna see that big fucking dick of yours in her." Dean sits up, Sam's boxers already halfway off anyway. He hooks a thumb in the waistband and down they go, straightening for just a moment to step out of them.

Dean's breath leaves his lungs in a long exhale, because _holy fucking shit._

Sam's dick looks absolutely massive, fully hard, every goddamn vein sticking out in sharp relief from his skin. It's definitely as big as Dean remembers, his foreskin drawn back and his big, mushroom shaped head a dark purple. Dean licks his lips, making himself stay put, watching as Sam takes himself in hand and gives his cock a couple strokes. Dean looks for Stella's reaction, her face a mix of shock and awe; it had better be the reaction she has, because Sam's junk is as beautiful as the rest of him.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Dean tugs at his own balls and settles back down, watching as Sam looms over Stella and pins her wrists to the bed.

Stella doesn't answer, looking up in to Sam's dark eyes as he teases the head against her lips, getting himself wet. Dean slides his own fingers down and touches his hole, wishing he had one of his dildos right about now – they're across the room where Sam is, and if he goes over there, well, he may just kick Stella out and confuse the whole situation even further.

Dean closes his mouth so that he can hear Sam over his breathing. "Do you want me to use a condom?"

Stella shakes her head, chest heaving as Sam teases her clit with his thumb. "No – hysterectomy."

That explains the scar on her stomach then.

"Good."

Watching Sam's cock slide into Stella ought to be immortalized, because Dean knows firsthand just how fucking good it feels, to be filled up like that and overwhelmed. Stella's a champ, managing three quarters of Sam's length before she finally pushes against his chest for him to stop. Dean chances moving a little closer, Sam nodding ever so slightly that he can. They've barely exchanged a word and yet Dean understands that he's not allowed – not yet – to touch.

"Gotta put a good show on for my brother, Stella. He likes it rough and dirty."

Sam is the most evil of evil bastards, because Stella loses her shit on the word "brother."

Dean nearly does to.

It's all she can do to finish filling herself with Sam, struggling to put him on his back so she can ride him. Dean's hand is a blur on his dick as Sam holds her down with one hand and gather her legs around his waist with the other. God Himself could not have put together a better porno than this.

For every time Stella tries to push, Sam pushes back twice as hard, his mouth on her breasts, collarbone, shoulder – everywhere but her mouth. Sam doesn't let her get close, intermittently making eye contact with her. Dean feels the sweat rolling down his own back as much as he sees it on Sam's skin, slick and shiny.

Dean wants to say something, contribute, hell, anything – but he can't. He's kind of stunned speechless by watching Sam ravish this girl – this very, very lucky girl. He wonders if this is what it was like with Jess, if he let her ride him, do as she pleased to Sam's body; so far as Dean knows, he's the only one who's ever gotten that much freedom. He smiles as Sam catches his eyes again, feeling more than a little lucky that he's the only one who really knows Sam in bed – this is part act, part anger, and mostly eye fucking with Dean.

"Sam, Sam please, I'm-" Stella's moans have been pitching higher and higher, Sam holding her down with one hand and his other between her legs, touching her clit and keeping her right on the edge.

Dean's timed right with Stella, because Sam's the one really setting the pace. He can feel his balls drawn up tight, his heartbeat going crazy, watching Sam and only Sam. Sam's close too, Dean can tell by the way his movements are getting more frenzied and unfocused.

Stella beats them both.

Her back arches up so suddenly that she knocks Sam out of rhythm, her toes curling as she screams. Sam's o-face is what sets Dean off, both of them right together as Dean comes all the way up to his throat, watching Sam shake at the same time. He goes taught all over, and his orgasm overwhelms him so much that Dean notices a tear run down his cheek. It's beautiful, a little tragic, and the most satisfying climax Dean's had in two years, and Sam hasn't so much as laid a finger on him.

"You… you can go." Sam squeezes Stella's hands and rolls off of her. It's unfair to kick her out when she can't really walk but the less time she's there, the less awkward the whole situation is going to be in a few minutes. Not exactly like they're going to ever see her again anyway.

Dean barely notices the sound of the door shutting a few moments later as Stella leaves, his focus still turned on Sam. He looks absolutely exhausted, not to mention a little melancholy.

"You okay?" Dean retrieves his underwear from the floor and wipes himself off, his eyes never leaving Sam.

Sam shrugs, burying his face in his hands. Normally Dean would find Sam's nakedness attractive but now? He just seems vulnerable.

"She..." Sam looks up and pushes his hair back from his face. "I had to prove it to myself."

"Prove what, Sammy?" Dean sits down on the bed next to Sam, barely touching his knee with his own. Sam's warm and a little sticky, and he doesn't shy away as Dean rubs his back.

"That I could move on, physically at least."

"You did great, baby boy – made me come without even touching me."

Sam gives a wan smile. "She has absolutely _nothing_ on you."

Dean grins. "I don't know, looked like you were enjoying yourself there. Always kind of wanted to watch you to fuck a girl anyway."

"Yeah?" Sam finally looks up at him, and Dean swallows against the lurch his heart gives.

"Yeah – if we ever need a backup career, I'll gladly be your agent for when you become a porn star." Dean winks and Sam actually chuckles.

"I'd get nervous on camera."

"Nah, you'd be great. I'd even buy all your films." Dean keeps his hand in the middle of Sam's back and rubs circles over his muscles, and Sam relaxes a little more.

"You're a good brother, being supportive like that. Kind of makes up for all of the times when you're an asshat."

"Is that an invitation to sit on your head?"

Sam laughs again, and Dean gets goosebumps. "No."

"Dammit." Dean laughs with him and leans into Sam's side, closing the space between them a little more. Sam lets him, the sweat making them stick to each other.

"I still haven't forgotten what I said, Dean." Sam's voice is barely above a whisper, enticing Dean to put his head on Sam's shoulder – but he doesn't.

"No rush, Sammy, I'm not going anywhere."

"No Dean it's not that, just…" Sam takes a breath before he keeps going. "To be like that, with you… you understand that's serious, right?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, boinking your brother on the regular takes some nerve."

Sam frowns, and Dean goes quiet. "Dean, come on."

"Then what do you mean, exactly?"

"I'm saying that if I'm like that with you, then we're, you know…" Sam crosses his middle and index fingers of his right hand and clenches them.

"We were before, like that." Dean squeezes Sam's two fingers for a second before letting them go.

"But that was before, Dean, and this is now."

"Wouldn't be any different, Sammy."

Sam nods, then gets up. Dean watches his back as he takes a couple steps towards the bathroom, standing to follow if Sam invites him.

"You're right, Dean, it does take a lot of nerve."

Before Dean can answer, Sam's closed the door and locked it, and that's the last Dean gets out of him about it.

"How do you feel about Missouri?"

Those are the first words Sam says to Dean the morning after Stella. Let that be the new time standard – before Stella, after Stella. Dean smiles internally, spitting out his toothpaste before he answers. Sam looks like he's been up and dressed for a while, whereas Dean rolled out of bed twenty minutes ago and headed right for the shower. So far nothing feels too weird, aside from the whole exchange last night after Stella left.

 _You're right Dean, it does take a lot of nerve._

Dean straightens and wipes his mouth. "I mean, she's a nice lady but not exactly the type I get the hots for, you know?'

Sam comes up behind Dean and flicks his ear. "I meant the state, you perv."

Dean grins and tries to flick Sam back on the nipple. "It's big, it's flat, and it's full of evil shit the same as any other. Why, you got something?"

Sam digs a fold of paper out of his pocket – where he printed it off is a mystery to Dean. "I do."

Dean reads the article, upstanding citizens suddenly murdering their spouses, friends, etc, and then when then when the killers turn up a couple days later they have absolutely no recollection of the events, only to find themselves in a jail cell without much hope of getting out.

"Sounds like we've got ourselves a shapeshifter."

"And it's not in St. Louis this time – we're headed for Jefferson City."

At least it gives Dean something to think about aside from the fact that things are really fucking weird between himself and Sam right now.

They get even weirder when Sam starts to touch Dean.

They aren't sexual touches, or even ones that could me mistaken as such. No, Sam keeps his hand on the back of Dean's neck or on his shoulder the whole way to Missouri, whether he's driving or not. He doesn't say a word about it, doesn't really even give any indication that he knows he's doing it. Dean doesn't shrug him off because, hello, _Sam's touching him again –_ just that in the light of recent events, Dean wasn't exactly expecting to go hurtling back towards casual contact like that. Sure he and Sam communicate through touch a lot anyway but this… this feels a little too intimate.

Possessive, almost, like Sam's trying to claim him for his own. Oddly enough, Dean's okay with that.

Of course, it's possible Dean's overthinking this and Sam's making some sort of subconscious effort to put himself back on those terms with Dean. Dean's been ready from the get go, and Sam knows that. Maybe it's just because Sam is the only serious relationship he's ever had – and, if he's being honest with himself, the only one he wants. Sex is one thing but the commitment to Sam that's, well, something completely different.

And holy shit, Dean realizes what Sam meant, after Stella – it does take a lot of nerve to go back into that.

Holy. _Shit._

Suddenly Dean kind of feels like a dick for not comprehending where Sam was coming from earlier.

"Dean?"

They're at the check in desk for their motel – Sam must have done all the talking, because Dean only remembers getting out of the car.

"What's up, baby boy?" Dean comes out of his thoughts and looks Sam in the eye.

"They only have a room with one king left." Sam tries to keep his tone as matter-of-fact as he can – but it doesn't escape Dean's notice that Sam sounds excited.

"Yeah, uh, that's uh, that's fine Sammy. Not like we haven't shared before."

Dean pencils in a mark for himself, because Sam definitely picked up on the loaded meaning.

So far as motels go, this one isn't too shabby. Cheap, yes, but it's clean, and the bed sits on a dais, complete with wrought iron headboard. It's a California king, too, definitely wide enough to accommodate both of them comfortably. Dean studies the headboard closely, and for a moment he has a vision of himself tied at the wrists while Sam works him over, completely at his will and-

"Dean, we should probably head out soon." Sam's already putting his stuff down and hanging his suit up in the wardrobe, efficiency and focus and let's go, while Dean remains standing just in the doorway, staring at the bed.

"Dean?" Sam sidles up in front of Dean, making him look up.

"Sorry – thinking."

"About?"

Dean tries for a shit-eating grin but he's afraid it turns out as more of a macabre grimace. "Nothing. You're right, we need to head out." Dean puts his stuff down, checks to make sure he still has his pistol in his waistband, and tries not to think about Sam's lips on the back of his neck.

If only chasing a shifter was the easy part.

They spend a whole day questioning witnesses, a night pouring over the evidence with drinks, and then another two days going to each scene where the victims were murdered. It's tedious and boring and in that time, another person is killed, and this time Sam and Dean are there before the body's even gone cold.

Not even a good, grisly murder is quite enough to keep Dean's thoughts off of Sam. The way he fills out his cheap suit should not be nearly as sexy as it is, but Dean's a sucker for Sam in a tie. He remembers a time when he would pull Sam forward by it and kiss the shit out of him. He's also been sleeping with Sam, which should be wonderful, but even in the same bed there's still distance. No accidental spooning, no pillowing on each other – nothing. It's getting to be irritating, because the subconscious ought to know better.

Or so Dean believes. Could be they've both been dead tired and just don't move in their sleep.

"Dean, I think we have a better lead."

Dean's leaning against the Impala, thinking about Sam in nothing but a tie and dress socks. "What's up?"

Sam reads from his note pad. "Says the body was only deposited here, not murdered – there aren't any signs of struggle in the house, but there _are_ traces of industrial fluids were all over the body."

"So… factory? Waste dump?" Dean straightens and stretches a kink out of his back.

"Old textile plant – they said they'll need a while to put together a team, but I figure we'd be better off to check it out ourselves." Sam stuffs his pad back into his pocket and stars to get in the car.

"You got an address?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's go."

Upon arrival, Dean agrees to take point. Better for their beast to come at him first, anyway.

That and Sam's ass is a distraction he doesn't need right now.

He kind of wishes he was in his jeans and jacket – in spite of the mild weather, blessedly free of snow – but there hadn't been time. At least he has his boots on, so at least _something_ feels right.

There's a breeze blowing through from somewhere, and it makes the rusting looms and spools creak eerily, amplified by the cheap tin walls so that it gives off even more of a horror movie vibe. Sam's presence behind him doesn't exactly comfort him, because he can tell he's just as antsy. That's bad when they're _both_ rattled at every little sound.

"You see anything yet? Dean plays his flashlight over the next patch of floor, spying nothing but long dried oil.

"No. Something weird, though." Sam stops next to Dean and double checks to see if the safety is off on his pistol. "I don't think we're here alone."

"Like, the shifter is still here and not crawled back to his slime hole?" Nascent powers or not, it is kind of cool that Sam has the Force – not that they talk about it often, nor does Sam make use of it. They've had that discussion already.

Sam just nods, putting a finger to his lips to indicate quiet.

Before Dean has a chance to follow where Sam's eyes are looking, he's on the ground, being beaten to a pulp by something very heavy and very cold. He can't yell, the pressure on his neck stopping his windpipe. If Sam's faring any better he doesn't know – he can't hear or see _anything._

 _Sammy, get out._

He doesn't know if he says it or thinks it, because someone has turned off all the lights and then there's nothing, nothing at all but the sound of his own enveloping unconsciousness.

The smell is what brings Dean back to life.

Okay, consciousness – but as much as he hurts, it may as well be coming back from the dead.

He's suspended from the ceiling or wall, given the way his arms feel like they're being pulled from their sockets. Did he upset a Wookie? Hey, at least his sense of humor is intact. Can't say the same for the rest of him.

Dean makes a valiant effort to breathe again, and the overwhelming smell of rotting flesh nearly makes him vomit.

He does anyway when he's kicked in the stomach, the remains of his breakfast becoming a puddle on the floor in front of him.

 _"Motherfucker."_ Dean tries to lift his head but he gets kicked again, and it hurts just as much as the first time.

"God, I can't stand you hunters." It's too dark to see exactly who said that, but it has Sam's voice.

"Sammy?" Dean peers into the dim light, trying to keep his mouth closed as tightly as possible so he doesn't taste the air as well. Too late.

This time he's kicked behind the knee and the chains holding him up – he hears them rattle – keep him from falling down. His weight shifts anyway and his shoulders scream, making an already almighty hurt even worse.

"No, not Sammy." Another kick, this time to the other knee. "Same body though. Nice model, isn't he?"

The not-Sam steps out in front of Dean, silver eyes glinting with malice. "But man, this kid is fucked _up._ "

Dean does his best to make himself taller, only his legs won't let him. "Shut the hell up and cut me down so I can fucking end you."

"Really?' Not Sam steps forward and cups Dean's jaw, squeezing so hard that it makes his eyes water. "That's what you've got to say to me?" He lets Dean go and stalks back off a couple feet away, then punches Dean in the ribs. Dean grits his teeth, hoping to God that he'll at least pass out soon.

"You know, the only thing I hate about my job, _Dean,_ is that I get all the shit in the head, too." The shifter grabs his head like it hurts, and then screams so loud that Dean's surprised he doesn't wet himself.

"Never said we were all there, you know? Kill enough shit like you and it starts to mess with your head." The defiance he feels but not so much hears in his own voice does make him feel a little better.

"Shut. Up." Not Sam clocks him in the jaw, and Dean swears it makes his brain rattle. If this is how strong Sam actually is or if it's just the shifter, he isn't going to try and process right now.

The shifter injects a taunt into his tone. "You want to know what's so fucked up? Not even the incest, no – it's the way he's _scared_ of you." The shifter's feet echo loudly over the metal floor. "He's… god, he's scared of what you'll do to him if he leaves you."

"Preaching to the choir." It's a lie, but if it buys him some time to think…

Not Sam roars again and kicks Dean in the calf. Dean feels bone threaten to give.

"Shut the fuck up!" The shifter shrieks, pulling his own hair. "It's the guilt. He is so fucking guilty over abandoning you, and breaking your… I can't do this, he thinks, because…" Not Sam looks crazed, the bloodlust in his eyes making Dean try to back away. Of course he doesn't go anywhere, but now he's truly terrified.

"Why don't you just kill me, motherfucker?"

"Because," the shifter snarls, "you're going to know it before I kill you. He loves you too damn much to run, and it's killing him. That's what's fucked up. He actively wants to die rather than face what he's done to you."

Dean absolutely refuses to believe it, because one this is a fucking _monster_ telling him this and two, he should be dead. Really, really dead, because shifters don't keep victims alive to taunt.

He pretends to ignore the fact that each word hurts _a lot_ worse than any physical pain this shithead can inflict.

"It's almost worth letting you go so that the two of you can destroy each other. Makes a day's work that much easier." Not Sam produces a knife, a long one, and Dean feels his testicles retreat up into his body.

"You don't think he won't kill you when he finds you?"

"Oh, I'm not worried about that." Not Sam steps closer and traces the sharp edge of the knife along the edge of Dean's jaw, barely slitting the skin so that only a thin line of blood trickles down.

"Then I'll see him in hell."

 _"Get the fuck away from my brother."_

Right as the shifter's about to go for Dean's throat, Sam's voice – and shotgun – thunders so loudly that Dean's ears start to ring. The shifter lets Dean go, moving back into the shadows, snarling at the invasion. Sam's gun booms again, more felt than heard, and this time Dean sees the muzzle flash. Beyond his limited range of vision – between the dim light and his eyes being swollen nearly shut – he's not sure of where Sam is, but he definitely hears the scuffle. Which Sam is which is hard to tell, especially since they sound the same.

"Kill the fucker, Sammy." Dean tries to yell, rattles his chains in encouragement. If they both survive this – and if Sam lets him – he's getting at least ten blowjobs every day for the rest of his life. Dean can owe him at least that much.

Sam's pistol barks, one, two, three times, and then comes the sound of tearing flesh, then a gargle of drowning. Sam – at least it had better be Sam – shoots two more times, then silence.

"Dean!" Sam's not even trying to be quiet, his footsteps a loud echo even through the tintinnabulation of Dean's ringing ears.

"Over here, baby boy." Over here could be anywhere from where Sam is, but he sounds close enough.

The sound of Sam's breathing reaches him before Sam actually does, but all the same he's there, in the flesh, _his_ Sam, standing in front of him.

"God, Dean." Sam's closed the gap in a second and his guns clatter to the ground as his arms go around Dean's neck. Dean closes his eyes and lets Sam hang on for a second before he tries to shrug him off.

"I'm all for hugging you back, but I'm kind of strung up." Dean wiggles his chains, coughs from the pain in his ribs, and tries to look brave.

Sam laughs, more out of relief than anything else. "I'll get you down, babe."

Dean perks up and for the moment his ribs stop hurting. "Hang on – what'd you just call me?"

There isn't any hiding the grin on Sam's face, given his proximity. "I called you babe."

"Been a while since I heard that directed at me." Dean nearly sobs with relief when Sam gets one arm loose, the feeling returning to his fingers slowly and painfully.

"Yeah, about that – something I wanted to ask you before all this but didn't get the chance." Sam gets Dean's other arm free, and that's when Dean's knees give, and down to the floor he goes; Sam's reflexes are still working well enough that he catches him before he face plants.

"Seeing as how I can't move, I'm all ears."

"Why don't we wait until we're outside?" Sam helps Dean up, his left arm around his waist. "Can you walk?"

Dean tries a step – it hurts, but he can do it. "Painfully."

"Mind if I hang on anyway?"

"Not at all, Sammy."

Two things that Dean notices once they're outside. Firstly, it's night, and it has been for some time now. Two, the moon is bright enough for him to finally notice the massive bruise that purples the right side of Sam's face.

"Nice shiner there," Dean says, gesturing to Sam's black eye – and cheek, his forehead, and so on.

"It looks as bad as it feels, too." Sam winces when Dean tries to palpate it. "I've had _a lot_ of painkillers in the last eight hours."

"Eight hours?'

"Yeah – it took me a while to find you." Sam helps Dean lean against the side of the Impala as he grabs the first aid kit out of the front seat. "You wouldn't believe how many old buildings I had to check."

"But you found me."

"Yeah well…" Sam clams up for a second, turns his head to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. "I thought I was dead. Though _you_ were dead."

"You arrived just in the nick of time, Sammy, so I don't really think we have to worry. Bastard's dead and we're still in one piece." Dean tries to grin but the effort just makes everything hurt more. "Alright, mostly one piece."

Sam nods, swabbing alcohol over some of the cuts and bruises on Dean's face. "Before I say what I'm about to say, I just want to let you know that it's not out of guilt or adrenaline or anything."

Dean swallows, his heartbeat a little too loud in his ears. "'M listening"

Sam takes a breath, looking Dean in the eye. He's backlit by the city lights and the moon, and Dean thinks he's about as beautiful as he's ever been, beat up face or not.

"Do you want to go on a date sometime? I mean, if-"

Sure his face and the rest of him hurts like absolute hell, but kissing Sam kind of makes up for it. It takes a second before Sam starts to kiss back, but he does. God, he does, and if Dean wasn't afraid of hurting something else he'd try his hardest to climb into his arms right now.

Dean does break the kiss a few seconds later, and yeah, it hurts worse than any physical injury to break but he has to ask anyway.

"Before we move any further, are _you_ okay?"

The hesitation on Sam's face doesn't exactly make Dean feel good, but his eyes are hopeful. Always a good sign.

"Honestly? No. But I'll be that much closer if we start-"

"Knocking boots again?"

Sam smiles. "Kind of want the whole treatment, Dean, not just the physical part."

"So no more Stellas?"

"None." Sam goes for a kiss this time, but stops two seconds later. Dean groans because seriously, it hurts to stand and he wants to make out with Sam until he's more blue in the face then he is now. "And I won't ask you to keep it in just my pants but maybe at least keep it here?" Sam places his palm on Dean's chest, right over his heart.

"Sammy, listen – we're not gonna do it wrong this time, and that's a promise. Really isn't anyone else anyway, you know that." Dean makes the effort of lifting his left arm so that he can cup the back of Sam's head. "I can keep my eyes in my head, promise."

In lieu of answering, Sam kisses Dean again, and Dean's smiling so wide that it's worth the bruises on his face hurting that much more. Sam gently takes his other hand and threads their fingers together, only to start laughing right as Dean's about to open his mouth and let Sam stay as long as he wants.

"I'm not laughing at you, I promise. Well, actually I am."

"Do I tickle or something?"

Sam puts his other hand on the inside of Dean's ruined suit jacket and keeps it on the not quite as bruised part of his ribcage. "No – but you smell like _ass."_

"And that's funny because…"

"Kind of figure we'll be okay if we've ignored that up until now."

Dean takes a whiff of himself and yeah, Sam's right. "Okay, I get how this is kind of a boner killer."

"I can't get a boner right now, need the blood to stay standing."

"Good point. Why don't we take this somewhere with more showers and a bed."

They both duck into the Impala as quickly and gently as possible, and wouldn't you know it, sitting hurts not a bit less than standing. At least Sam tries to speed things along so that they aren't stewing in their own pain and stink for too long.

Speaking of pain…

Dean digs around in the first aid kit, searching for a bottle of something a little stronger than Tylenol. They were running low before and God forbid something happen before they're able to get their hands on more. Stealing from hospitals isn't something he likes to do but in their line of work, it's an unfortunate necessity.

"There are two left, babe." Sam pulls the bottle out of his pocket and hands it to Dean.

"Holding out on me, huh?" Dean tries to elbow Sam in the side but the motion makes him hurt even more. It's official, they're taking a siesta for a couple of weeks before they go off chasing evil again.

"Huh? No, I actually put them in there so I could get them to you quicker. Was gonna let you have them before we left but…"

"We were busy."

Sam smiles and puts his hand on Dean's knee. "Yeah."

Dean covers Sam's hand with his own as he swallows the pain pills dry. "While we're in the mood for discussing it, can I make a couple suggestions?"

"I'm all ears, Dean."

"Good – more of this. _A lot_ more. I missed out on touching you for two years Sam, and I want to make up for it – and if we're gonna treat this like a real thing-"

"It is a real thing."

"Alright – but yeah, your hands, my hands – this." Dean squeezes Sam's fingers before he brings them up to his mouth to kiss the knuckles.

Sam looks more surprised than anything, and Dean frowns at the expression. "Really wasn't expecting to hear that coming from you."

"Yeah well… I want it right, Sammy."

"Lots of ways to do it right, babe. But this is a good start."

"Another thing – I want to sleep in the same bed as you, every night. King or not, I want every inch of your bony, gangly-limbed self next to me."

"Even when we both have awful morning breath from too much drinking." Sam laughs a little, the gesture obviously making his ribs hurt but hey, no better time to do this than when they're both feeling really honest.

"Especially after that. Sam, I'm being nothing but serious here, alright?"

"You're not going soft on me, I hope."

"Not in any sort of bad way, no. Just… we've both almost died a lot recently and I have a lot of shit to get off my chest."

"We both almost die a lot… a lot."

"Exactly." Dean leans over and kisses Sam on the cheek. "It's always been me and you, baby boy, I'm just trying to put that right again."

Dean doesn't even realize they're back at their hotel until Sam's shut the car off and is turning his body towards his. His suit is in just as shitty of a condition as his own, but somehow it looks good on him. "Before we go inside and... do whatever unspeakable things we're both planning… I just want to tell you she's part of the past now. No ghosts or anything." Sam taps the side of his head. "A good memory, but a memory Dean, that's all."

"I respect that." Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's knuckles, never having turned each other's hands loose. "'M not gonna try and make you forget her, either."

Sam kisses Dean chastely and smiles. "Requiescant in pace."

"Requiescant in pace," Dean murmurs back.

"Want help getting out of the car?'

"I'd love that."

Sam can't do much more than let Dean hang onto him as he eases himself out – the shifter did a real number on him, especially to his legs. Dean knows he has bruises already forming, not to mention what feels like a couple of cracked ribs. Sam is doing a magnificent job of looking stoic but he's hurting too, and badly. The sooner they're both inside and lying down the better.

Dean starts to make for the bed once their feet are touching ancient shag carpet, only to be steered away.

"What's the big idea here, I'm sore."

"And _disgusting._ " Sam's already taking his tattered jacket off, dumping it in the floor along with his own. Dean holds his breath, the painkillers starting to work so that some of his other senses are freed up. Sam's right – they're both nasty.

"You know, any other time this would be sexy, me completely helpless as you take my clothes off. Maybe we should do that when we're both feeling up to it.

Sam chuckles as he comes around to Dean's front and starts to undo his tie. "I knew you were a sub before – guess that hasn't really changed."

"Hell no. I'm actively looking forward to those new guns of yours holding me down and having your wicked way with me." Dean taps Sam's arms, the hard muscle felt even through his shirt. "I know I mentioned it before, but I'm loving the ripped look on you."

Sam steps back, undoing his buttons in a flash and taking the shirt off. "May as well get a good look while I finish undressing you."

Dean nearly trips over himself trying to cover the six inches between them so that he can run his fingers over Sam's abs and chest. Now that he's up close and personal, Dean sees that Sam's gotten a lot more vascular as well – never minding the bruises and marks his fight with the shifter left on him.

"I'm gonna need at least a day with just your front, baby boy." Dean's fingers dip past his navel and scritch through the hair of his treasure trail. "Actually, make that two days. Yeah, that ought to be good."

"It's all yours, Dean." Sam leans in to kiss him again as he pushes his shirt off his shoulders. Dean swears he shoots right to cloud nine, his hands going to Sam's hips and yes, they still fit there just as naturally as they used to.

Sam pulls him closer, tries his hardest to be gentle with him as he presses the kiss deeper. Dean opens his mouth and there's Sam's tongue, licking along the inside of his mouth, tasting him, making sure that it's still Dean in there. Dean moans softly because he could absolutely get off on just this, just making out with Sam, bodies pressed close together.

In spite of the fact he's a giant bruise, Dean feels his blood turn south and it must be enough for Sam to notice, because he reaches down and cups Dean's junk through his pants.

Dean nearly falls over, and they aren't even naked yet. Of course, Dean's always been really easy to light from Sam's touch; Dean can't recall a time when he hasn't been more than okay with that.

"That's mean, taking advantage of me in my weakened state." Dean doesn't move an inch, and spreads his legs a little wider.

Sam kisses the side of his head, keeps fondling and cupping. "Didn't you just say you liked that?"

"No…."

"That's what I heard."

Dean makes a noise that he hopes conveys "I know what I'm doing" but Sam also nips his earlobe at the same time, making an already dire situation even more so. Like Dean needs the help _not_ standing up.

"Dirty son of a bitch," Dean mutters.

Sam just moves behind him, his arms going around his middle. "Hold still."

Dean shivers at how the vibrations of Sam's voice carries over his skin. "Yes, sir."

"No, you perv, so I can get your pants off."

"Uh, how else am I supposed to respond to that?" Dean wiggles his hips against Sam's, and finds out that yes indeed, he's hard too. "Oh, hello."

"Hey, hands off while I'm working." Sam tries to swat Dean's hand away from his junk but Dean's feeling persistent, managing to get his fingers on Sam's belt buckle.

"Too late Sammy, you've got me interested." Dean doesn't even notice his own pants and underwear going down, even though Sam's doing his determined best to make him pay attention. Dean wriggles around so that he's facing Sam, stepping out of his pants and shoes at the same time. Sam looks down at him, smiling.

"You look way better than I remembered up close." Sam touches Dean's stomach and hips, his eyes never staying on any one spot for more than a moment. Dean feels like he's being sized up for dinner just the teensiest bit – again, that's fine. Sam's interest is never anything less than intense.

"Uh, thanks?"

"No, just my memory was a little fuzzy, is all. I like how you've filled out more." Dean stands back an inch, allowing Sam plenty of room to reach down and heft his cock between his fingers. Through his pants had been really good, skin on skin a million times better. In spite of himself, Dean's wet; he watches Sam's fingers as he makes a string with his precome.

"Didn't think too much of it myself." Dean's eyes follow Sam's hand as he brings his fingers to his mouth, breathless as Sam's tongue darts out and he tastes Dean's body, savoring it to the point of exaggeration. Dean could come right then and there if Sam did that long enough, seriously.

"Tastes good, babe." Before Dean has a chance to put together any sort of coherent response, Sam's leaning in to kiss him and taking his own pants the rest of the way off (Dean had gotten unfairly distracted) and it honestly feels like heaven opens right up on them, Dean having Sam's naked body pressed to his for the first time in way, way too long.

Dean tries hard to wrap a leg around Sam's, only to be defeated by a second later by the fact that he's had the shit kicked out of him. It's the least smooth way possible to break a kiss, but it's that or Sam goes down on top of him, thus complicating his injuries even further. Dean _definitely_ doesn't want that.

"So here's an idea," Sam says, his lips going back to Dean's, "why don't we go get cleaned up and then you can tell me all about whatever idea it is I'm sure you just had."

Dean simply nods.

Making the short journey to the bathroom involves a lot more mutual groping than any sort of hasty movement to get in the shower – Dean's just glad that his painkillers are kicking in and he's not stumbling quite so much. Still, he holds onto Sam just in case of an emergency. Sam certainly doesn't seem to mind, anyway. He's good like that, always has been, willing to lend Dean a hand or shoulder to use for support.

"Think you can stand up long enough for me to wash you?" Sam slides the door the shower open and steps in first, hand held out for Dean.

Dean frowns good-naturedly as he finishes taking his socks off. "I think I can handle it, Sammy – I'm hurt, not dead."

Sam chuckles again and stands in front of Dean so that the first, cold burst of water hits him instead. "Fair enough."

Sam does Dean the solid favor of leaning against the wall so that the water hits them from the side, his legs spread so that Dean can step between them, actually washing each other out of the question for a minute or two. Dean doesn't mind in the least how Sam gets a little desperate as he kisses him, his hands cupping his face like he's something far more precious than he actually feels. Dean strokes Sam's dick, slow and lazy, just enough to keep them both on edge; Dean doesn't need a hand, honestly, because just touching Sam as he is, well, it's more than enough. It always has been, Dean realizes.

"You still with me, babe?" Sam breaks the kiss, his hair wet and stringy against his forehead; Dean feels his already weak knees approach mush status that much faster.

"'M good, Sammy, just thinking." Dean tries to resume the kiss but Sam stops him with a finger to his lips.

"About what, Dean, you can't just be distracted in the middle of us doing that and not tell me."

Dean knows he's going to lose this argument, and Sam kind of has him at the disadvantage of "we're both naked right now and I would lick every inch of you if my knees would cooperate." Completely unfair, but he may as well spill while they're both in the mood to listen.

"Notice how I'm pretty much leaking like a faucet without you actually doing anything? Yeah, kind of been like that ever since you were sixteen. Isn't anybody that gets me as wet as that, baby boy, nobody."

Sam licks his lips, looking down at Dean's hard cock where it rests, pointed upwards, on his thigh. "I was holding on to you so you wouldn't fall down, is all."

"No, Sammy, it's fine – I'm saying that it's… okay, when you touch me like this, I almost don't need anything else." Dean guides Sam's hand down to his dick, makes him touch his glans, precome making Sam's fingers come away sticky.

Sam does the whole "lick my damn fingers like a porn star" thing again and Dean moans, his eyes glued to Sam's mouth. Give him twenty minutes of that and Dean would never, ever need anything else to beat off to again. (That list is starting to grow quite long, now that Dean thinks about it.)

"I see what you mean," Sam says. "Feels good to know I'm not alone in that."

Dean feels his smile reach all the way to his eyes. "So we're both horny and desperate for each other, is what we've determined."

"Correction – we've _always_ been that way. Except now we're adults and are you know, better at it."

"Seems to me like dry humping would be just as fun now as it was back then." Dean winks, and Sam's eyebrows go up.

"Again, why don't we get cleaned up so we can go and find out."

There's a part of Dean that's very, very glad for John teaching them how to shower fast and hard; they actually do a pretty decent job of all of the nastiness off from the shifter's lair. Dean's going to need a longer soak at some point in time before he feels super clean but there are greater things at stake right now.

Besides, he and Sam are just going to get dirty again soon. No need in worrying too much about it.

Drying off doesn't take _that_ long, considering both of them are feeling more than a little stiff from dealing with the shifter, not to mention Dean trying to continue his thorough groping of Sam. Sam finally just pins him against the sink and dries his back and ass off, both hands held firm halfway between his shoulders and butt.

"Handsy bastard," Sam growls.

"Keep doing that and this show will be over before it's even started." Dean turns around as far as his aching body will let him, and Sam kisses him as he releases his hands.

After scrubbing down and another couple painkillers, Sam's bruises don't look that bad, mostly on his chest and stomach; Sam obviously didn't let the shifter get too close. Dean's just glad that he's the one that looks worse for once; Sam's very good at bearing the brunt of injuries, whether he's the one tied up or not. Dean touches every bruise, gauges how much Sam hurts, and keeps him close the whole time. Dean hardly notices Sam doing the same to him.

"So," Sam says, "since you're the one who got beat up more, you're gonna be on top." Dean's gaze follows Sam's body as he lays down on the bed, moving to the middle and spreading his limbs in invitation.

Dean doesn't move, just stands there looking at Sam, stroking himself and drinking his brother in; the bruises actually make Sam look even sexier, if it was possible. "Don't hear that very often."

"As I recall, you were on top a lot." Sam catches Dean's hands against his and pulls him in close once Dean's settled comfortably against his body. Man, it feels nice to be back where he belongs.

"Yeah, with your cock inside me." Dean ducks for another kiss, humming contentedly as Sam takes them both in hand, cocks pressed together. In all seriousness, bless Sam's enormous hands, because he's far better at holding them together than Dean ever has been.

"Don't seem to remember you complaining about that role, babe. We can always change it up, you know."

"Why fix what ain't broke, Sammy?" Dean's being serious – he's never once had qualms about bottoming for Sam, hell, he's never had a more powerful orgasm than with Sam pounding him into whatever surface they happened to be against at the time.

"Just giving you the chance since we're laying new groundwork, babe." Sam kisses Dean's jaw and neck as he starts to stroke them both, settling for slow and steady. That's fine, more than fine, letting them both savor the feeling of each other's bodies. Too fucking long apart, Dean thinks again.

"Wouldn't take it if I had to, baby boy." Dean moans, softly, as Sam rubs his thumb over where his frenulum would be.

Sam mouths along Dean's jaw to his ear, kissing the skin right in front of it. "When we're both healed up, I want you to ride me until I'm cross eyed. Want to make you come so hard you shoot right in my mouth, babe."

Dean's putty in Sam's hands to start with but when he starts with the filth – and right up close and personal, to boot – Dean kind of starts to lose control of himself. Sam's had the art of dirty talk down for a long time now, and he's only gotten better as he's aged, it seems. Man, if things keep going as they are, Dean definitely isn't going anywhere.

"Keep talking baby boy," Dean rasps.

Sam starts to stroke them both faster, a little tighter, enough to where Dean feels Sam's foreskin moving against his cock. "Gonna eat you out so fucking good, get your hole nice and wet. Wanna watch you sink right down on my cock, really, really slowly."

What was already an unfair situation becomes even more so, because Sam takes the hand he doesn't have on them and threads it through with Dean's fingers above his head, keeping Dean's arm at as comfortable of a bend as possible. Now he really can't go anywhere, completely at Sam's mercy – and he's the one on top, too. It truly, truly doesn't make a difference, because this is _exactly_ where he wants – and needs - to be right now.

"Sammy, 'm close," Dean whispers, mouth touching Sam's. "Wanna come with your tongue in my mouth."

Sam is obliging to a fault – one of his stronger traits – and he absolutely kisses the shit out of Dean, mouth open as wide as he pleases and Dean takes advantage, his free hand cupping the back of Sam's head to press them closer. Sam's hand is fast and warm, constantly catching that sweet spot just behind the corona, making Dean see all sorts of stars behind his eyelids. Sam's close too, breathing heavy through his nose and involuntarily rutting his hips against Dean's.

This isn't how he really pictured them getting back together, if he's being honest. A mad rush of passion, maybe after a fight or too much booze – no, this is slow, warm, steady, better than any sort of drunken blowjob against a bar wall. Dean's smiling into the kiss, constantly running his tongue against Sam's, his teeth, gums – everywhere. Sam smiles back, squeezes Dean's fingers in an _I've got you_ sort of manner, kisses Sam back down to the mattress, and then he comes, his whole world flaring white-hot all the way up from where Sam's hand is on his cock to the top of his spine, wave after wave washing over him. He can feel Sam shaking against him, his legs wrapped around Dean's, teeth against teeth and his fingers so tight against his own that Dean feels bone shift.

Definitely better than how he pictured it.

It takes them a few moments to regain their senses, to the point where Dean really doesn't want to open his eyes. Sam's lips against his face brings him back, slowly, and the grin Sam's giving him is a little too dazzling.

"Want to see the mess we made?"

Dean's not about to turn down that invitation, bending his neck to investigate further. Sam's abs and chest are absolutely coated with spunk, Dean's thick ropes a sharp contrast with the wild, shotgun-shell spray of Sam's; either way, Sam's a mess.

"Shit," Dean murmurs. "Guess we'd both been hard up for a while."

Sam laughs and gives Dean's cock a couple of lazy tugs. "Hadn't come since Stella – and even then I had to think about you."

"I was in the room Sam, remember?"

"Yeah – but I like you better here." Sam gives him another kiss, long, slow-burn, deep enough that Dean loses track of time; by the time it finishes their come is almost dry and Dean's feeling crusty.

Dean hates to ruin a good thing – and kissing Sam is _always_ a good thing – but his stomach rumbles; breakfast seems like it was a lifetime ago.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"If we can get food, I can probably uh, give a repeat performance. Just in case you're interested." Dean certainly is – he and Sam have a lot of time to make up for, and the sooner they start the better.

"Burgers and fries sound good?"

Dean kisses Sam again before he replies.

"You read my mind, baby boy."

It's raining when Dean wakes up the next morning.

The sky through the barely open curtains is a battleship gray, dark clouds rolling with the wind. Distant thunder is what had awakened Dean, the low kind that's felt more than heard. Another far off clap makes him open his eyes even further, sleep still fogging his mind.

He starts to wonder why he feels so unnaturally warm before he remembers last night.

 _Oh._

Sam's still out cold, his chest to Dean's back, arms wrapped around him from behind. Dean recalls being in the exact same position last night when they fell asleep, dinner and three more orgasms a piece later. Dean hadn't gone to bed that happy in a long, long time. The sweat rolling down his back is more than worth it; Sam always been the equivalent of a very sexy space heater at night, winter or summer, doesn't matter – he's just _warm._

He's still sore as hell, too. He doesn't remember feeling it quite as much last night but now, now he's starting to hurt. He probably needs to have his ribs taped up and about a week of bed rest before he even contemplates any sort of vigorous activity. They've had to do that before, hunt with broken bones – Dean hates it. A body isn't worth a damn if it breaks on you.

Sam stirs behind him, shifting so that his nose is buried in Dean's neck.

"How long have you been awake?" Sam's voice is sleep worn and raspy. It sends a long shiver down Dean's spine, even though he's more than warm enough.

"Couple minutes," Dean answers. "Why, were you watching me sleep?"

"Nah – I just felt you tense and thought something was up." Sam helps Dean turn over on his back. "Nothing's up, is it?"

"No – just still feeling yesterday." Sam starts to say something lewd but Dean actually stops him, indicating at his body. "That shifter beat the shit out of me."

Sam pulls the covers down so that he can have a better look at Dean's body. "Did he beat you with a tire iron?"

"No, just fists. Kind of wish he'd have just skinned me and been done with it." Dean winces as Sam palpates his ribs.

"You need to be taped up and like, in bed for a month."

"Does that mean you'll be in bed with me?"

"Wouldn't you get tired of that after a while?" Sam runs his hands over Dean's sides, putting pressure to his muscles and gauging how much it hurts based on what kind of noise Dean makes.

"You're a terrible doctor, Sam."

"Would you prefer me to let you suffer in peace?" Sam straddles Dean's thighs, keeping his weight off of him. From this angle, Sam's black eye and bruises don't look quite as bad as his own, thank God.

"No, but I do want to help with that." Dean points at Sam's crotch, his morning wood tenting the leg of his boxer briefs.

"Down, boy," Sam commands. "I'm trying to make sure you're not like, going to die."

"And you letting me jack you off before breakfast will help _massively_ with my recovery." Dean slides his right hand up under the leg of Sam's underwear. "See, I feel better already."

Sam frowns at him and pulls away. "I need to loosen you up before you start to atrophy – you've got muscles that haven't moved in twelve hours or better."

"Would any of those muscles be, say, in the ass area?" Dean winks up at Sam to goad him and gets absolutely nothing in return.

"I don't know how you're still horny after last night," Sam mutters. Dean complies anyway and turns over on his belly, wiggling his butt in as enticing a manner as possible.

"Because, Sam, I am never not horny around you."

"So… you're horny all the time, basically."

Dean looks back at Sam, sleep mussed hair and his underwear pulled a little too low making his heart grow two sizes larger.

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

Sam's had the art of the long-suffering sigh down for a long time, and the one he gives Dean now just might be his masterpiece. "Just hold still, babe."

"Yes, sir."

Sam shimmies the covers down until they're well past Dean's knees and the cool-ish air of the room is brushing his skin as intimately as Sam's hands. Dean rests his chin on his pillow, deliberately slowing his breath and closing his eyes; he knows Sam needs him still for what he's about to do.

"I honestly don't see how you were still standing yesterday," Sam says. "You're really, really tender."

"But delicious," Dean says. Sam's hands are on his calves, rubbing slow, gentle circles over every square inch of his skin. It feels almost too good, and, if Dean's being honest, it hurts a little. That's no fault of Sam's, of course – just an occupational hazard.

"I remember the first time I had to do this, after you got thrown by that black dog in Reno." Sam's voice is as softly firm as his touch. "Thought I was gonna break every bone in your body."

Dean smiles as Sam's hands move up to start working on his thighs. "All I remember is you hot dogging me."

"Trust you to remember something like that." Dean can't see him but he hears the smile in Sam's voice all the same. "Do grievous bodily injuries turn you on or something?"

"No – it's you playing doctor that does it for me. C'mon Sammy, you ought to know that by now."

"Just making sure nothing had changed." Sam leans down and kisses Dean mid-spine, his lips as soft and dry as a falling leaf. "Want me to take your shorts off?"

"Oh, are we gonna recreate Reno?"

Sam smacks him gently on the ass. "I'm trying to be thorough, asshat."

"Thorough away, Sammy." Dean lifts his hips and feels his boxers slide down his legs and off his feet. The feeling of just being naked near Sam makes his dick stir; if Sam wants to act on that, he's more than welcome to.

"If we find Dad-"

"When, Sam, not if." Dean's not going to give up hope on him yet.

"Fine – _when_ we find Dad, are we gonna, you know, tell him?" Dean can tell Sam's been mulling that one over for a while, and truth be told Dean doesn't really have a firm answer to his question. Dean's always kind of suspected that he knew exactly what he and Sam used to get up to under the cover of darkness, in the back of the Impala on overnight drives, when they would be waiting on him to find out some scrap of information and they couldn't keep their hands off of each other. God, they'd been insatiable back then, and Dean at least doesn't feel like things have changed that much.

"Dean?" Sam gently nudges his shoulder, probably thinking Dean had fallen asleep.

"Sorry, Sammy – thinking." Dean sighs, opening his eyes again as he speaks. "I don't really know what we'll do – what _I'll_ do."

"Hey, I'm just as guilty as you are."

"Yeah, but I'm not gonna let you be the one who takes the hit for it, cause if he does I'll throttle him."

"And you don't think I wouldn't do the same for you?"

Dean tries to sit up and look back at Sam. "I know you would – but you aim to kill, Sam. He's scared of you."

Sam's expression becomes a little heartbroken. "Scared of me?"

"Yeah, Sammy." Dean manages to extract himself out from under Sam until he's facing him upright. "You're smart _and_ deadly, and he knows it. I know it. And you two haven't always gotten along, so…"

"I still want to find him, Dean." Sam looks down, and Dean takes his hands into his own.

"I know you do – but I'm just saying that maybe this is something that should stay between us, like it always has." Dean leans forward and kisses Sam's chin, the bristles of Sam's scruff tickling just a little bit against his lips.

"I always did like trying to watch you explain where you got hickies from when you hadn't even gone anywhere." Sam's melancholy expression brightens a bit as he grins.

"Yeah, and I don't remember you backing me up on _any_ of those stories."

"Because I was proud of having put them there." Sam reaches up and touches Dean's neck, fingers ghosting over his Adam's apple. "Still am."

"Never met anyone who could make 'em last longer, baby boy." Dean's surprised at how scratchy his voice sounds, especially when Sam's hand comes to rest on his thigh very near his crotch.

"Think I could probably still do that?"

"Dunno, Sammy, only one way to find out."

Sam's on his neck before he has the chance to react, but that's okay. Spontaneity goes a long way with Dean; he remembers a lot of times when he and Sam would just drop everything and go, even if it was for a couple of hours. Dean loved that – and still does – just getting away with Sam, nothing but each other to worry about. It had been fun, thrilling even, and they'd return dappled with hickies and bite marks and scratches from where they'd inevitably end up doing filthy things to each other.

Sam's mouth pulling on the join of his neck and shoulder brings him back, hurting just enough that Dean growls. It doesn't do anything but make Sam suck that much harder, and Dean knows he's in for it now.

"On your belly, Dean." Sam's tone doesn't allow even an inch of room for argument, and two seconds later Dean's back in his original position.

Sam's hands on his achey back in another context would be immensely soothing; now it's just arousing. He's more than a little surprised that he can even get hard right now, considering that the last couple orgasms they had given each other the night before were dry. Dean doesn't care, it feels good – beyond good – and it's Sam doing it to him.

"So fucking sexy, babe," Sam purrs. "Always loved your back."

"Yeah?" Dean tries to flex and ends up almost pulling a muscle - but the way Sam's hands dig into him is more than worth it. "That why you like to fuck me doggy so much?"

"That and you're a dirty slut for deep dicking."

Dean shrugs. "Can't argue with that."

Sam leans forward and licks between Dean's shoulder blades. "Think I might like face to face better though."

Dean turns his head, opens his mouth for a kiss. Sam gives it to him, all tongue and growls and hands on his body. Dean tries to swivel the top half of himself so that he can kiss Sam deeper, get his hands on the back of his head and draw him in. Sam doesn't yield an inch, just kisses Dean for five more blissful seconds before he's gone again.

"Fucking tease," Dean mutters.

"Oh, I'm just getting warmed up babe." Sam makes sure Dean can see him at least partially as he slides his underwear off, hard cock snapping out of his waistband and slapping his stomach. Dean hates the term "meaty thwack" but that's exactly what it is, kind of loud in the poor acoustics of their hotel room.

"That for me?" Dean tries to reach for Sam's dick but Sam pins his hands at the small of his back.

"In a way." Sam bends again to kiss the nape of Dean's neck, another shiver making Dean's skin feel like it's crackling. "Tell me if this gets uncomfortable, okay?"

Dean pulls his best shit eating grin. "Sam, I swear to God I don't want to be anywhere else right now." Dean's not even remotely kidding; Sam holding him down and taking gross advantage of him is something he doesn't see himself getting tired of anytime soon. Not that he's opposed to taking the reins, it's just that Sam does it so much better.

Sam hums agreement, licking a stripe across Dean's shoulders. "You taste good, babe."

"Feel like I'm kind of sweaty, Mr. Space Heater."

"You love it." Sam ruts against Dean's ass once, his cock big and imposing and the longer he keeps it there, the more Dean wants it actually in him. Trouble is, he and Sam aren't quite up to that yet; Dean knows that once they get going, they go _hard._

Dean pushes his ass up against Sam's body. "Don't see how that's a bad thing." Dean feels his breath leave his lungs as Sam presses himself as close as he can, his hand still keeping Dean's wrists in place. His breath is almost uncomfortably hot against the shell of Dean's ear, but Dean isn't exactly keen on trying to move out of the way.

"It isn't – face down and ass up is a good look on you, baby." Sam sucks on his earlobe, and Dean feels his dick jump. This is absolute heaven, pure and simple. As soon as they're able, he wants Sam to fuck him like this; close, hot, and deep. _Especially_ deep.

"C'mon Sam, enough messing around." Dean tries to sound impatient but Sam's mouth against his neck again makes him sound desperate.

Without missing a beat Sam strengthens his hold on Dean's wrists, pushes against Dean's ass faster and harder. Dean hears as much as feels Sam's change in breathing, the way his determination focuses on nothing but Dean. It's a thrill all on its own to be on the receiving end of all that power, even if all Sam's doing is hot dogging him.

"Can feel your precome, baby boy." He can feel the damp stickiness against his hands where the tip of Sam's dick keeps bumping them.

Sam thrusts his dick up so that it's right against Dean's fingertips. "Been wet since I flipped you over, Dean. God, you get me so fucking hard like this." He starts to thrust again, slowly, so that Dean can feel how his girth is pushing his cheeks apart. Makes it almost worth investing in a camera so that they can record this shit and watch it again later; Dean would never have to search for porn again.

"Yeah, that's it Sammy, nice and slow." The sheer movement of Sam against his body makes his own dick rub against the bed, and it's to the point where he only needs about thirty more seconds before he's gone; doesn't really take that much when Sam's bearing down on him with all of his considerable intent.

"I'm close, Dean."

"Come all over my back, Sammy." Dean figures that's a long shot but the encouragement is more than enough; a couple seconds later he feels Sam shudder against him, the sticky warmth of his come pooling right at the base of his spine. Dean comes untouched against the mattress, his eyes shut against the hot rush of hormones that flood his system.

Sam does at least do him the favor of rolling him out of his own puddle of jizz.

"Okay, I'm definitely dry now," Sam says. "And I don't want to move."

"We don't have to. Can just wait until we're feeling up to it again." Dean's got his head on Sam's chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat and starting to feel sleepy again.

"What about breakfast?"

"Room service, baby boy – hand me that phone." Dean tries to reach over Sam's chest but is stopped before he even gets halfway.

"Hang on a sec – something I want to talk about."

Dean has yet to hear or use that phrase in a context that could be viewed as positive, and it's always right after good sex – or before it. "Sure."

"I was thinking last night – why don't we heal up for a few days and take it easy?"

Okay, not so bad. "I'm open to the idea. What'd you have in mind?"

"Call it a working vacation – I want to get my hands on some of Bobby's books, brush up further on some stuff. I've noticed some pages in Dad's journal that probably need to be updated." Sam turns over and props himself on his elbow, his chest more or less right in Dean's face. Distracting? Incredibly.

But it's a beautiful distraction.

"So we head to Sioux Falls for a while, read and…"

"Catch up more when we're not reading."

"Back bedroom with the king bed?" Man, he and Sam gave those walls a lot to talk about when they were younger. Hell, that was where Sam ate him out so thoroughly one summer night that he came without laying a finger on himself. Maybe they ought to recreate that memory as well.

"Wouldn't want to go anywhere else."

Dean's more than on board with that.

Dean does do Bobby the favor of letting him know that they're coming, only to find out that Bobby isn't there. In fact, he's not been home for two weeks.

Had they known ahead of time, they'd have gone east with him to Ohio; the heartland has always been one of Dean's favorite places, except Bobby told them to keep resting and that "a couple of lame hunters is the last damned thing he needs." Okay Bobby, whatever floats your boat. Dean hadn't exactly been beat up about the fact that the old man wasn't going to be there. He's got a lot more romance to rekindle, and if they can do that with relative privacy, Dean isn't going to complain. Besides, he promised him they'd replace anything they ate or drank.

Well, most of it.

Sam's also eager to be there – he's not been to Bobby's since the summer before his senior year of high school – and what a time that had been. They'd stayed by themselves there for almost a month, and Dean doesn't have much memory of wearing much clothing then; he and Sam had gone at it like rabbits from the moment they set foot in the door until Bobby and Dad came back. They'd had some explaining to do as to why most every flat surface in the house smelled like bleach and sweat; Dean still wonders how they managed to get away with that, because they hadn't exactly given a firm answer.

What sticks out the most in Dean's mind about that time though is Sam's body; he'd been on the tail of puberty, lean and tall and floppy haired. He had just turned eighteen so he wasn't quite jailbait anymore but Dean still felt kind of guilty being on his dick that much – which had been just as big then as it is now.

"Are you coming in or not?" Sam's leaning into the driver's side window, having already pulled all of their stuff from the trunk and set it on the front porch.

Dean turns his head, blinking to clear the images of teenaged Sam from his mind. "Sorry, I was reminiscing again."

Sam opens the door and leans into Dean's space, smelling of aftershave and the faded leather of the Impala's passenger seat. "You keep doing that, and never tell me what you're reminiscing _about_."

"I was thinking about the last summer we spent here, debauching each other like there was no tomorrow. Satisfied?" Dean doesn't even try to be discrete about adjusting his boner; it's all Sam's fault anyway.

Sam doesn't say anything, just nuzzles Dean's cheek – he's been doing quite a lot of that lately, touching and reminding Dean that yes, he is indeed _there_. "Think he'd get mad if we fucked on his sofa at some point?"

Dean has to fight to not groan with arousal. "I don't think so, so long as we clean up after ourselves."

"Good – because I don't have any condoms and I seem to recall you really, _really_ enjoying fucking bareback." Sam hauls Dean up out of his seat and kisses him hungrily, his hands cupping and squeezing Dean's ass. Dean lets himself be trapped between the solid, muscled wall of Sam's body and the Impala, unashamedly rubbing himself against Sam's thigh, kicked between Dean's legs to keep them spread.

It's not until a few seconds later that Sam's intentions were purely evil, jangling Dean's keys next to his ear and backing away with spit covering his lips.

"You weren't moving fast enough," Sam says. "And I have to pee."

"You could have asked nicely and I'd have given them to you." Dean wipes his mouth and catches Sam's belt loops with his index fingers. "And I wasn't done with you yet." Dean grunts as he pushes himself against Sam, his ribs still hurting too much to be aggressive but he'll be damned if he lets something as trifling as that stop him. Sam growls as Dean's tongue shoves past his lips, only amplifying Dean's desire. Between the "I'm a goddamned fuck machine" noises Sam makes and the dirty talk, Dean wonders how he's managed to survive. That mouth alone could get him off and it would never even have to touch his body. Maybe they ought to try that as well.

Dean sees the trail of saliva connecting their mouths as he pulls away. "I'm only letting you go because I'd really, really like to keep this going inside – it's about to rain."

"I like how it's now about _your_ priorities." Sam threads his right hand through Dean's left and he's led towards the steps, trying to hide his grin as they come up to the front door, both of them braced for Bobby's improvised security system. Dean's been on the bad end of that a couple times and a bunch of junk coming down on your head for taking a bad step isn't fun. At all.

Finding not a scrap of metal to come down on them, they rush inside. Thunder claps overhead as soon as they're in the door, rattling the old house down to its foundation. Dean fumbles for a light switch, Sam having already beat it to the downstairs bathroom. He's tempted to follow him in and maybe perv on Sam's dick while he's got it out, only that seems like an invasion of privacy. He and Sam have seen and felt each other in most every position in the book and he still gets nervous when Dean watches him pee. Dean honestly doesn't see the issue but hey, whatever keeps Sam happy. He's not about to put him off because he decided to watch him take a leak.

Dean walks to the living room, palming his cock through his jeans; he's actually looking forward to the next few days, between delving into Bobby's treasure trove of knowledge and getting to spend what he hopes amounts to an awful lot of naked time with Sam. They need it, and badly. Whether Dean requires more Sam or rest, he's not quite sure yet. Best to get lots of both, just to be on the safe side.

Broad, sure hands come to settle on his hips, sliding up his sides as soft lips touch his neck. Dean puts his hands over Sam's, still damp from washing.

"Hey," Sam whispers, his breath ghosting warmly over Dean's skin. Dean can't think of anything particularly intelligent to say back, more focused on how Sam's blunt nails are digging into his skin through his shirt and staying up right because of it. Sam's _good_ at this, teasing without doing hardly anything, and Dean feels his blood rush south like it has so many times in the last seventy two hours.

"Hey," Dean finally says. He sounds hoarse and Sam's barely even touched him – that bodes well. "All better now?"

"Mmm." Sam's interest in his neck moves towards behind his ear, and Sam puffs warm breath over that spot. "You smell musky."

Dean gasps a little as Sam's fingers tease his nipples through his shirt. "Been a while since my last shower."

"'S okay – smells good. Manly." Sam buries his nose in Dean's hair, his hands still on his chest. "I like it."

Dean chuckles, shifting his hips so that his ass rubs against Sam's bulge – and he's still hard. "Still want you to shower with me later anyway. Old man's not here so we can use all the hot water we want."

Sam doesn't say a word, just continues to rub Dean's body. Dean leans his head back against Sam's shoulder, turning his face towards Sam for a kiss. Sam's mouth is on his again, and fast, mutual desire not having ebbed a bit. Sam sucks Dean's bottom lip into his mouth, his arms trapping Dean against him so that he can't go anywhere. Dean feels lightheaded, like he's taken a few shots of some overly intoxicating liquor, except there's no hangover to dread, nothing but Sam's touch and body for as long as he wants it.

It doesn't take long for them to make their way to the couch, moving by feel and instinct, Dean going backwards so that he's down first, flat on his back with Sam laying on top of him. It still smells as faintly moldy and lived in as it did ten years ago, nothing having changed save for the color of the fabric as it fades. It's comfortable – too comfortable – and Dean lets Sam press him down further into it, sinking as he puts a hand on the back of Sam's head for support.

Sam keeps hesitating to place his full weight against Dean's body, holding himself so that he's hovering more than anything. Dean breaks the kiss reluctantly, running his fingers through Sam's hair to placate himself.

"Something wrong babe?" Even with half closed eyes Dean can see Sam's concern.

"Not a thing, Sammy – just that you can get comfy if you want to. My ribs are fine." It's mostly true – and even if it wasn't, Dean still wants Sam on top of him. In a constant sort of way.

"You sure?"

Dean hooks his right leg around Sam's waist and the other around his legs to pull him in.

"Positive."

The advantage to Sam being on top is that Dean's got enough room to maneuver and keep Sam there, his arms and legs tight around his body. Sam groans as Dean tightens his grip, each kiss getting a little sloppier than the last. Since the other morning in the hotel they've not been able to get in a lot of quality necking time, having been on the road traveling, making a stop at Dad's storage locker (and finding nothing of use) and trying really, really hard to keep their hands off of each other to get work done. Hell of a tough thing to do when the only person you've ever really loved has suddenly re-committed themselves whole heartedly back to what you had before.

Dean must be thinking too hard again, because Sam pulls back to frown at him.

"My goal is to make you _not_ think – what's going on Dean?" Sam doesn't get far, because Dean brings him back in.

There's not much of a point in lying right now, so Dean doesn't. "I'm happy, Sam, is all. I have you back, we're making out on the couch, and that's… that's all there is to it."

"Sure that's all?" Sam ruts against his hips, and Dean feels his brain scramble. "Because I think there's more."

Dean swears against the fuzzy heat that creeps up his body and settles right behind his breast bone, feeling it flush him even redder. "Uh, I'm kind of really, really turned on by this." Dean gestures with his chin where they're pressed together.

"This meaning… what?" Sam clearly isn't going to do anything else until Dean tells a little more. Trust him to always stop for a chat when Dean can think of a million other entertaining things for them to be doing with their mouths. Of course, answering Sam's question will get them there that much faster.

Dean tries hard not to sigh before answering. "I don't know, it's like… like we're just a couple of normal guys you know? Long journey home, not able to wait to get our hands on each other. Feels… good. Yeah."

Sam smiles, the glint in his eyes letting Dean know that whatever he's thinking is about to make Dean's heart do something funny. "Almost like we're boyfriends sneaking around under the family's nose?"

Dean was right – that _does_ make his heart pound a little faster and his mouth go dry. "Exactly."

Sam kisses without a follow up, apparently satisfied at having made Dean go all funny. It's easy to think of Sam like that some days, purely as a romantic partner and not his own flesh and blood. Not that it's stopped them before, just that Dean thinks it's a little odd that the best sex he's ever come across in his travels happens to come from the same person who he grew up with trying so hard to protect.

Whether or not he needs to be protected from what they've done, Dean still doesn't have an answer to. It's not like "normal" has ever worked that well for them anyway.

Sam's tongue plunging deeper into his mouth chases his thoughts away – always plenty of time to mull them over later. Dean kisses back, hard, rubs himself against Sam's body. There's a lot of effort put into trying to match Sam's pace, on top with his full weight against Dean, rocking his hips and keeping his hands on Dean's torso. He keeps going for Dean's nipples, catching them between his fingers and gently pulling at them through his shirt; each burst of sensation kicks Dean's arousal that many more notches higher.

They end up coming in their pants, Dean biting down so hard on Sam's neck that it's going to leave a mark for a week.

 _Good._

Sam tries to roll off of Dean, only he has nowhere to go so he stays put, fingers caressing Dean's face and ears. "Next time we'll get naked, I promise."

Dean hears the lust-sated slur in his own voice. "I kind of like it like this, all desperate and hot. Friction feels nice anyway."

"Yeah, until I try to get up and remember 'oh yeah, I creamed my pants.' _That_ doesn't feel good."

Dean slides all ten fingers into Sam's hair. "There's a really easy way around that baby boy."

"Enlighten me."

"Just don't get up." Dean pulls Sam back in for another kiss, already hungry for more. "That sound okay?"

"Absolutely."

It's sometime after night fall before they make it off the couch.

There are a couple points at which Dean loses track of time over the next couple days. It's not that he's in a daze, he just doesn't care. As far as he's concerned, sunrise, nightfall, afternoon, whatever – it's kind of irrelevant, because his only task is to spend as much uninterrupted time with Sam as possible. So far he's doing well – they've barely been out of the same room together since they arrived.

Sam re-acclimates to his surroundings, and quickly, too. Bobby's place hasn't changed much in the intervening years, and Dean will catch Sam smiling as he comes across some well-thumbed book, memories coming back to him as he turns the pages. Not that Sam would ever forget this place, this _home_ \- because it's served as that often enough in their lives – it's just that there's been a lot of… life between those times. Dean never had that interruption, that break from the family business. Sam's ably sliding back into it, and when he's not got his hands on Dean, he's buried in books, knowledge, things that Sam attacks with an almost arousing focus. Yeah, Dean feels funny in the trousers watching Sam work sometimes. If he ever wanted to see Sam in a porno, it'd be the kind where he's a sexy librarian and he's caught Dean jerking it in the occult section after hours.

Hell, they might have to film that one themselves.

Oh – and then there's the physical element between them. Like Dean could forget that even if he tried.

Dean had allowed himself about forty eight more hours – give or take – before he'd deemed himself able to take Sam's dick. It had happened kind of fast, one moment they had been refreshing themselves on moon patterns and the next they'd been upstairs, Sam splayed out in the middle of the bed, his hands guiding Dean's hips as he'd settled into his cock. Sam's facial bruising had healed up nicely, and Dean wound up coming hands free as he'd tried to kiss Sam into the mattress. They bit each other, knocked foreheads, and wound up with mattress burn in the process; desperation isn't pretty, but Sam is, and that's all that really matters. Even the cramps in his thighs had been worth it; Dean would never dream of ever giving his ass up to someone other than Sam, even if it had put him well out of practice. Sam certainly didn't seem to mind the job Dean did.

Trouble is, all it ended up doing was put Dean in the mood for _more_ – which isn't surprising, given that Dean doesn't recall a more intense orgasm than one of the numerous times that Sam's been balls deep in him. Numerous times in the past, but they still happened.

Except now Sam's a big fucking stud, with his longish surfer-style hair (thank you for rubbing that off on him, California) and muscles and a lot more stamina. That also might have something to do with the intense desire Dean feels most every waking moment.

Dean's sitting at the kitchen table, actually helping with research instead of chewing the end of his pen while thinking about sucking Sam's dick. (That hasn't actually happened yet, but Dean kind of wants it to; he needs to check and see if his deep throating skills are still in place.) Sam putters around the counter, making breakfast (even though it's much closer to lunch time) and doing absolutely nothing to arouse Dean other than exist. He's humming a slow jam, something that wants to turn into "Blues In The Night" but it never quite gets there. As much as he rags on Sam for his taste in music, the kid definitely has respect for the Great American Songbook.

"Hey Dean?" Sam breaks his humming for a moment and Dean ends up filling in the rest of the phrase for him. Sam smiles a little when he realizes Dean had been listening all along.

"What's up?"

Sam brings him an omelet, complete with bacon and cheese done to perfection and sits down across the table from him. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"I think after the last couple days you can ask whatever you want." Dean winks as he cuts the end off of his omelet and pops it into his mouth.

Sam's smile doesn't fade, but he does look down as he folds those massive, wonderful hands on the table in front of him. Fuck, has he really gotten _that_ big?

 _Yes Dean, he has._

"If I ask you to avoid the living room for a while until I say it's okay, will you do that?" Sam chews his lip, waiting for Dean to answer. Dean would right away, but he's currently eating the most delicious omelet that's ever been cooked ever.

Dean swallows and takes a swig of orange juice, smacking his lips with enjoyment. "I don't suppose I get to ask why, do I?"

"Just trust me babe, you'll be glad you did." The unspoken _it's a surprise_ doesn't help to sate Dean's curiosity, but if Sam's got a plan he looks this eager to execute cooking in his brain, then Dean will be patient.

"Alright. Can I have a hint?"

Sam gets up and comes around to Dean's side of the table, looming over him and looking down. Dean licks his lips, because this is the view he's had in the past right before he stuffed his mouth full of Sammy-cock. Yes, he's got it _really_ bad right now. Oh well.

Dean grabs Sam's wrist as Sam caresses his right cheek gently. "Let's just say it's something I've thought about doing with you a lot lately."

Interest sets Dean on edge as he kisses Sam's palm. "Please tell me it involves more of what we've been doing. And by doing I mean us naked together, performing unspeakable acts on each other."

Sam shrugs, causing his t-shirt to ride up ever so slightly; Dean catches a glimpse of treasure trail and Hanes boxer shorts. Too bad all of Sam's shirts didn't fit him that well. "You'll just have to wait and see, Dean." Sam leans down, nose level with Dean's and warmth so deep in his eyes that Dean feels a pleasant trickle of sweat run down his back.

"You know me, I'm not good at waiting." Dean wants to kiss Sam so fucking badly right now that he almost aches – so he does. Sam yields for just a second before he reaches past Dean's plate and the books next to it. When Dean realizes he's got the car keys in his hand, he knows he's been hoodwinked. Again.

Sneaky bastard.

"I promise I won't scratch her, but I do need to go into town." Twenty three years old or not, Sam still looks nervous as hell asking to borrow the car. Dean kind of wishes he didn't – that's partly his fault anyway. He and John kept his car privileges on a short leash when Sam was younger.

"Hey, I trust you Sammy." Dean ruffles Sam's hair, making him shy away with a smile.

Sam pulls Dean up out of his chair and puts his arms around his waist. "No matter what you hear, just stay put okay?"

Dean makes his promise with a kiss that tastes like orange juice.

It's late afternoon before Dean finally hears Sam stop bustling around in the living room. He actually looks at the clock on Bobby's stove to check the time – a little after four o'clock. Granted for part of that time he took a little siesta; as fun as sex with Sam is, it's also energy consuming but hey, go hard or go home.

He's not really sure _what_ Sam's up to – he's heard what sounded like furniture being moved, ice being poured into something, and a lot of Sam humming the same song. It's what had lulled Dean to sleep after Sam had returned, listening to his deep, mellow voice a couple rooms over. It's not enough to take the edge off of his excitement, though – he's still burning with curiosity.

With a sigh, Dean turns back to the book spread wide open in front of him. He's moved on from celestial influences to demonology. The couple they've come across in their recent sojourns were not easy to get rid of, especially the one on that goddamn airplane. Sam still owes him for that one.

The text is in Middle English, and Dean has to keep stopping to make sure he's getting the gist of each page, constantly wondering why these guys couldn't have written like Kurt Vonnegut; easy to read, plenty of cursing, and a hell of a lot more entertaining than terrible art of what demons look like. They do have the black smoke down, however. Good to know that hasn't changed.

Dean's about to reach for Dad's journal when he hears a soft "hey."

He nearly falls out of his chair when he looks up.

Sam's in the doorway facing the table, his arms extended above his head so that he's hanging off of the frame, making all of the muscles in his shirtless body flex, and flex _hard._ His hair's falling over his face in this wonderfully disheveled manner, making him look innocent. Trouble is, the whole innocent vibe is set off completely by the navy blue cut-off-at-the-knee sweatpants he's wearing, riding so low that his dick is almost literally holding them up, his bulge indicating that Sam's already half hard.

The view it affords of how Sam's treasure trail connects to his pubes is priceless, too.

"Hey." Dean tries not to gape but hell, Sam looks like he's posed for the first take of a nude photo shoot.

"Having fun over there?" Sam doesn't move, just makes his pecs bounce – like Dean needed further enticement to move. It's not in the least his fault that Sam's body caught him by surprise.

"Not really." Dean stands, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "But it looks like you are over there."

Dean feels just the teensiest bit objectified as Sam's eyes slide down his body, garbed as he is in t-shirt and jeans. Sam's got the whole "undressing you with my eyes" thing on lockdown. "I know a place where we can both have fun." Sam lets his left arm drop to hook around Dean's body once he's close enough and pull him in.

"Care to guide me?' Dean feels up Sam's chest and abs, sliding the flat of his right hand down his body and stopping right as his fingertips touch the base of Sam's cock.

"Think you're already on the way all by yourself, babe." Sam cups the back of Dean's head and kisses him, his tongue tasting minty fresh and really, really warm. Dean opens his mouth as wide as it'll go, letting Sam take whatever he wants. When he feels Sam spell out his name on the roof of his mouth, Dean moans so loudly he feels it in his own skull.

"Horny?" Sam asks like it's the most casual thing in the world. The nerve of this boy sometimes.

Dean's kind of mad about the kiss breaking, but Sam's got both hands on his ass, grabbing two mighty handfuls and massaging so that Dean wonders if he could get off just from Sam groping his butt. "No, not at all." Dean rubs himself against Sam's hips in counterpoint to his answer.

"Good – follow me." Sam holds Dean's hand as they move to the living room, and Dean finally gets to see exactly what it is Sam's been working on.

The love seat has been moved so that it's now facing the television, covered with one of the blankets off of the bed they've been sleeping on – the one with all of the come stains already in it. On the left side sits an ice bucket filled not with champagne but beer – _good_ beer that Dean only ever treats himself to once in a while. The late afternoon sun spotlights the cushions, inviting them to sit down.

"What's uh, what's going on Sammy?"

Sam steps behind Dean and uses his hands to turn his head towards the television, and on the screen loops a title menu for "Oriental Orgy 4: Long Haired Asian Studs Fuck." Dean laughs, Sam's arms around him and his mouth on his neck. It's too good, way too good, and Dean's not laughing _at_ Sam – he's laughing because he's treated better by Sam than anyone else he's ever met.

Sam urges him gently towards the couch, murmuring the whole way. "Been a long, long time since we jerked off to porn together, so that's what we're going to do." Sam sits down on the side without the beer on it, patting the seat next to him.

"Or you know, blown each other."

Dean sits down in a hurry.

Sam throws his left arm over Dean's shoulders, hugging him to his body. "Thought you might like that idea." He nibbles Dean's earlobe and starts the porno all in one smooth motion, making Dean shudder just a little.

"Yeah, this is like… this is spot on, baby boy." Dean puts his hand on Sam's knee and slides it up his thigh really slow, dragging his blunt fingernails against Sam's warm skin. Now it's Sam's turn to shiver; Dean knows where most of Sam's sweet spots are, and the insides of his thighs are a big one.

Sam's lips rest right against Dean's ear. "Feeling kind of thirsty – get me a drink?"

Dean reaches for two bottles, uncapping them both with practiced ease. The moans from the porn in the background are broken up for just a second as the air hisses out from under the caps; Dean's barely even paying attention to anything but Sam.

"What are we drinking to?" Dean crosses his arm with Sam's so that they're holding the bottles to each other's lips.

Sam thinks for a moment, his other hand coming to rest on Dean's thigh. "To us, and to hoping our blowjob skills are still up to snuff."

Yeah, Dean can drink to that.

Sam sets his bottle aside after they've both taken a long pull and paws at Dean's crotch, making Dean spread his legs wide. "Don't think you need those, do you?"

Dean guides Sam's hand along the length of his hard on, bulging out the left thigh of his jeans. "Definitely not. Wanna help me get out of them?" Like hell he's going to do it all himself – Sam undressing him is half the fun. Something about those hot hands removing every last stitch of clothing from his body makes his blood course even harder.

"Kind of bummed that you spent the money on that porno," Dean says. Sam's working on his belt, laying kisses on his neck as he goes.

"Why's that?" Dean's belt comes out of the loops fast and is tossed to the floor with a clatter.

"Because, all I'm really interested in is you." Dean covers Sam's hand with his own while his button and fly are done, Sam getting a little impatient as he shoves his hand in to grope Dean's cock through his underwear. He feels the precome where it's stuck to his underwear pull against his skin, making him try to push against Sam's fingers.

"Don't see how that's a bad thing, Dean – it's just to set the mood anyway." Sam hooks his fingers in Dean's waist band and pulls down, and suddenly Dean's naked from the waist down, his socks going with his jeans.

Dean finds himself with a lap full of Sam, his dick rigid against Sam's ass. "Consider the mood set, Sammy."

Sam reaches behind himself and strokes Dean's cock, using his thumb to smear his precome around the bottom of his glans. "Can always keep it to watch later."

"Damn straight." Dean gets a mouth full of Sam's tongue, the wheat-tinged taste of beer heavy on his palette. Dean puts both hands up the legs of Sam's shorts, not stopping until he's got as much of Sam's junk in them as possible.

"Something you want there?" Sam gets out of Dean's lap and lifts his hips so that his shorts join Dean's pants on the floor.

"Damn straight," Dean repeats.

The floor is warm as he gets to his knees and looks up at Sam, all long body and even longer dick, his face flushed red from arousal. Dean wishes he had a camera right now because this is when Sam's the most beautiful, aroused and anticipating and just…

"You okay?' Sam cups Dean's face and leans down to touch their foreheads together.

Dean feels a swell of emotion in his throat, swallows it back and closes his eyes. "Definitely, Sammy, just… feels like we're finally-"

"Right again?"

"Yeah."

That's the term Dean was looking for. _Right._

Dean's never really said in so many words but definitely shown in actions just how much enjoyment he gets out of blowing Sam's cock. It's relaxing, in a way, just that one single-minded objective to think about. He still remembers that first time he blew Sam, about three weeks into them discovering that they both really liked fucking around with each other; it had been some really late night, watching bad movies on some satellite channel that barely even came in. They'd been fooling around for two hours, feeling each other up and then Dean had just… yanked Sam's sweats down and swallowed him down, cold turkey. He hadn't had a dick in his mouth beforehand either; he just operated on instinct – in fact, Sam's the only guy he's ever done _anything_ with.

Sam certainly hasn't complained in the intervening years.

"Missed this, Sammy," Dean purrs, his mouth right against the underside of Sam's cock. He pitches his voice low so that he knows it makes Sam shiver a little – he sees the goosebumps raise all over Sam's flesh.

"Me too, Dean." Sam whispers it, like he feels guilty for missing Dean's mouth on his cock. Dean wonders if Jess ever managed to deep throat him, make him come so hard with just her mouth that Sammy passed out.

The thought makes him jealous and he sucks Sam's weighty, loose balls into his mouth – _hard._

" _FuckshitDean"_ is Sam's reaction, his back arching off the couch. Dean fixes his gaze as much as he can on Sam's face (what of it he can see around his cock) and smiles, unhinging his jaw because of course Sam's balls are that goddamn big, teasing and looping over each one with his tongue. Sam moans so beautifully that the hair on the back of Dean's neck prickles – God, what a sound.

Dean backs off for just a second. "Like that, baby?"

"Shit, yes, Dean, do it again." Sam opens his eyes halfway, smiles lazily down at Dean.

Dean reaches for Sam's right hand and places it on the back of his head as he laps at Sam's sac, going slow because hell yes he's going to draw this shit out; they have butt fuck nothing to do right now, and Dean's going to keep his mouth on Sam's body as long as Sam will let him.

There's only so much you can do with balls in your mouth, so Dean sticks to just sucking on them nice and hard. It makes Sam's cock pull forward that much more against his nose, blood-warm and musky. He keeps his hands to himself for a while, just letting his mouth do the work, listening to Sam moan and gasp; he's completely at Dean's mercy, and that's okay. It's the one time during sex that Dean's got the reins in his hands – Sam takes them during the rest, tacit agreement between them. Certainly not like that way of doing things has stopped working.

Sam starts to reach for his cock, only for Dean to bat him away. He doesn't let off of his balls, just shakes his head, _I got you, Sammy,_ and he does what Sam was about to do, curls the fingers of his right hand around Sam's cock and strokes.

Dean wasn't expecting Sam to be quite so wet – but he is. He feels precome coat the insides of his fingers as he strokes, the faintest wet sound coming to his ears as he goes all the way up and makes Sam's foreskin bunch. Sam bites back a curse, his fingers digging into Dean's shoulder and scalp simultaneously.

"God, Dean, your _mouth-"_

Dean has a few guesses as to what Sam was about to say, except he never gets the chance – Dean's opening his mouth wide over the head of Sam's cock and going down, down, down.

So maybe Dean's deep throating skills are a little rusty – he only gets about two thirds of the way down before he feels his oxygen supply start to cut off but hey, the guy's really fucking girthy and it's not like Dean went around blowing random guys for practice (and he wasn't about to put a dildo in his mouth, those things have _been places._ ) Sam, to his credit, tries to slur Dean's name and tell him how good it feels but he's distracted at the moment, Dean's tongue making figure eights up and down the underside. Or maybe figure sixes, it's hard to tell really. All Dean knows is that what he's doing is working, and it's working really fucking well.

"Dean, fuck, _Dean,"_ \- absolute music, Dean thinks, better than a Creedence Clearwater slow jam. Dean takes that as encouragement, screws up his courage, and gets up more on his knees. He tilts his head forward and takes a deep breath through his nose, the clean, masculine smell of Sam's body making him all the more dizzy.

Sam's skin seems so far away and yet Dean pushes through despite his jaw aching and his heart pounding like a war drum in his ears. He finally touches his nose to Sam's body, every inch of Sam's cock shoved into his mouth. Dean holds it for ten, twenty, thirty seconds before he finally has to let go, suppressing a cough as he leans back.

"You…" Dean starts, trying to catch his breath, "you are really fucking big."

Sam smiles sheepishly as he wipes the spit and precome from the corners of Dean's mouth. "But you knew that."

"I'm out of practice, alright?"

"Hey, I wasn't gonna say anything." Sam leans forward to kiss Dean, swiping the taste of himself from Dean's mouth – Dean would put him somewhere on the low spectrum of salty. Better get some fruit in him if he's going to be swallowing his come on the regular now.

"Good, because I'm not anywhere near done with you yet." Dean places a hand on Sam's chest and pushes him back down on the couch and resettles himself.

"Do your worst, babe."

Sam _really_ shouldn't have said that.

Dean honestly isn't that worried about taking Sam all the way down again – at least not yet. (Truth be told, Dean's got to practice some more at it – his jaw is already going to ache for a good while after this.) Instead he just wants Sam to come not only hard, but _fast,_ because blowing him gets Dean going like there's no tomorrow. That and Sam gets growly and impatient the longer Dean draws it out, and Dean's not really in the mood to tease him for hours on end. Maybe when they both feel like it, but everything the last few days has been slam-bang-dirty – no reason to change a formula that's been working so well.

And maybe, just maybe, Dean really wants to taste Sam's come and swap that shit with him.

With a grin, Dean opens his mouth again – he doesn't have to say a damn thing, lets it shine in his eyes; I love doing this Sammy, and I love doing it to _you_ more than anything. That grin doesn't disappear as Dean sticks out his tongue and licks the whole damn thing like a popsicle, really, really slowly up from bottom to top. Something about that action must gall Sam to action, because he grabs as much of a handful of Dean's hair as he can and smacks his cock against his cheek – and Dean keeps right on smiling.

"Making me want that big fuckin' cock, aren't you baby boy?" Dean sticks his tongue out, and Sam smears his precome around on it, pink on pink.

"Not fair to just sit here, Dean, makes me look bad." Sam's all shiny with sweat now, and Dean really wants to lick more than just his penis. _A lot_ more of him.

"Don't think it's scientifically possible for you to look bad." Dean suddenly remembers that his hands are free and he pushes Sam back, making him release his hair. Before Sam can do anything else, Dean wraps all ten fingers around Sam's cock, winks at him, and then swallows his head.

That makes him hold still.

Dean hums as he works, gliding his tongue underneath Sam's foreskin, popping his cock head loudly in and out of his mouth, working up so much spit that it runs down his fingers. Yeah, Dean loves this part, the messy, sloppy process of getting Sam off with nothing but his tongue and lips. He uses his hands only a little bit, just enough to keep him still and remind him that he's got his cock in his hands, and any sudden movement on Sam's part would be a bad idea. Of course when Sam reciprocates (and he _always_ reciprocates, because he's just that good of a guy) Dean's in for it.

It's probably troubling just how much he's looking forward to it.

Sam tries – keyword being tries – to fuck up into Dean's mouth, only Dean doesn't let him – he just sucks harder, his tongue going around and around, teasing at Sam's slit and frenulum. Sam moans, both hands on Dean's head and neck, left leg wrapped around Dean's shoulders to keep him there – like hell if Dean's about to go anywhere.

"Dean, I'm so fucking close babe," Sam warns. His eyes are dark, almost _pleading._

Dean just sucks him that much harder – there's no way he's about to take his mouth off of Sam's cock – wild horses couldn't tear him away. There's a really heavy leak of precome that Dean just makes peace with and swallows.

Apparently Sam felt Dean do that, and that's all it takes.

He always told himself in the past that he's prepared for a mouthful of come, except he's not and the sudden, flooding taste of it makes him feel like he's drowning just a little; Sam's always come a lot, and Dean's never more aware of that than when he's got Sam in his mouth. He doesn't swallow it, just keeps up the pressure, milking Sam just enough so that he gets every drop. All the while Sam grits his teeth and tries to shout through them, only he's so lost in his orgasm that it's mostly a long, low moan. Mission fucking accomplished, Dean thinks.

Well… almost.

Dean takes his chance while Sam's all relaxed and climbs in his lap, keeping his mouth as close as possible. He grabs Sam's right hand and holds it tight while he uses his left to tilt Sam's head forward, Sam's mouth already open. Dean waits until their lips are touching to open his mouth, and Sam's tongue is absolutely licking the inside of his clean.

Sam, for all his brains and strength and skill, is just as big of a come whore as Dean is. Has been as long as Dean can remember, and it doesn't exactly appear to have changed in the interim. Dean feels kind of guilty about that but eh, they could be into a lot worse.

They end up getting so into spitting Sam's come back and forth into each other's mouths that Dean almost forgets about his own cock until Sam grabs a hold of it and Dean nearly crumbles like a cheap card table.

"Didn't think I'd forget about you, did you?" Sam looks a beautiful mess, with his hair all mussed and spit-come running down his chin. Another thing that needs to be immortalized in a photo.

"Never doubted you Sammy." Dean's voice pitches higher when the pad of Sam's thumb catches his sweet spot underneath the head of his dick; circumcised or not, Dean's still just as apt to going all funny when he's touched there.

Sam smiles, kisses Dean again. They really need to do just that for like, two hours; clothes on, lights low, and nothing but mouth to mouth. Dean could definitely get off on that, and has done before.

Except he kind of forgets all about that notion when Sam grabs the hem of his t-shirt and murmurs "think you're a little too overdressed." Dean tries to agree, only his reply is lost as his shirt passes over his head and he's left in nothing but his amulet.

It's kind of disorienting to be put on his back that suddenly, a low _oof_ kissed up by Sam as he's laid out as flat as he can be on the love seat. He has to keep his legs spread all akimbo, Sam sitting between them and looking like he's about to eat Dean alive. Dean watches, mesmerized, as Sam runs his hands down his body, starting at his cheeks.

"Givin' me goosebumps, Sammy." Dean's hips come up to meet the palms of Sam's hands as they come to rest on them; he can feel Sam's warm breath against the tip of his cock.

"'Bout to give you a lot more than that."

Sam licks the underside of Dean's cock – much like Dean had just done a bit earlier – except he goes down, way down, his body nearly bending double in the process. Dean gasps as Sam presses his nose to the space just behind his balls, nudging against them as he grabs Dean's hips and suddenly Dean's ass over head, tipped back against the armrest.

Well, this is unexpected. Not bad, just… not what Dean had envisioned.

Sam looks perfectly in control of the situation, looking at Dean from behind his cock. "Comfy?"

Dean gives him as much of a shrug as he can. "Relatively." It hurts his ribs a little but Sam's mouth on his intimate areas is going to make up for that handily.

"Good – been wanting to do this for a while now." Sam sucks on Dean's balls just long enough to get him interested and then he's made a short, fast trip south, his hands coming up to spread Dean's legs as wide as they'll go as he licks his hole.

Dean pretends the moan he lets out doesn't sound _that_ needy and wanton. (Except that it does, and he has no doubt Sam's going to rib him about it later.)

There aren't many things at which Sam out streaks Dean at; most of the time they're on even footing. The one time Dean will admit that the ball is firmly in Sam's court without a doubt is when Sam is eating his ass – Sam's a pro at it, and Dean's really fucking glad for it. Sam's okay at giving head but he licks Dean out like it's his sole mission in life, and he will do it without argument.

Sam's a treasure, he really is.

Dean can't help the way he closes his eyes and tilts his head back – it feels that good. Sam's tongue is continually warm over his skin, circling and moving up and down, over and into – Dean feels like he's going to implode from the inside out, and Sam keeps growling to boot; each vibration from his voice makes the goosebumps on Dean's skin raise that much higher.

He gets kind of mad when all of a sudden Sam stops and his mouth isn't anywhere near his ass.

"Was enjoying that, baby boy." Dean tries to right himself, only Sam's blocking him.

"Got you Dean, don't worry." Sam kisses the back of his thigh as he reaches past Dean for the ice bucket. Dean gets a good look at Sam's muscled torso and uses the chance to feel Sam's body up. Sam both looks powerful as well as exudes it; Dean's glad that he's using it to fuck him on the regular again.

He supposes it's good for hunting as well.

Sam re-settles himself and pops an ice cube in his mouth, using his front teeth to hold it in place. He looks at Dean as he holds it to Dean's hole, making lazy figures around his hole. Dean shivers, his dick jumping so hard from the change in sensation that a glob of precome drips off and falls into his open mouth.

"Kinky bastard," Dean mutters – Sam chuckles, deep and chesty. He lays the ice on Dean's hole and uses his tongue to press it in, making him fidget and try to get away. Sam's hands keep a vice-like grip on his body so that he can follow it up with a breath of hot air.

Trust Sam to work temperature play into what was supposed to just be them jerking off and watching porn together. He's too smart sometimes, really.

"Jerk yourself off babe," Sam commands gently. "Want to see you come on your face." He takes another ice cube and holds it to Dean's hole, making all those fine motor skills that are supposed to allow him to grab hold of his cock so he can do as Sam says slow way down.

"Eat me out good, baby." It's a foregone conclusion that Sam will – but Dean would like to have just a _little_ bit of input in this situation.

Dean didn't think that Sam was really holding back on him a few minutes ago, but now Sam's suddenly found all the energy in the world and it's all being condensed down to the tip of his tongue. Dean tries his best to keep pace with him, jerking himself off as hard as he dares – he doesn't try to go for the gold, because he wants that to last just a little bit.

When Sam nips him gently on his taint and then licks over the spot, Dean's plan accelerates without his consent and he's spooging himself in the face, Sam sucking on his balls to help him along.

"Shit, _Dean_ " – obviously he's made enough of a mess of himself that it took even Sam by surprise. He knows it's in his mouth, his eyes, and his neck – and it's dripping onto the loveseat.

Being the helpful person he is, Sam returns Dean to a prone-ish position and dives in, licking the come off of Dean's cheeks and lips. Dean grabs for Sam's shorts on the floor (at least that's whatever he's trying to pick up feels like) to clear his eyes. Sam takes the garment from him and actually decides to help instead of trying to snowball.

"Thanks-" Dean opens his eyes, only for Sam to be _right there_ and then they're swapping come for the second time that day, and Dean feels lighter than air. Sam holds him down though, their hands joined above Dean's head on the armrest. Dean traps Sam with a leg around his waist, taking far too much delight in the wet sounds that their lips make against each other. Sure the taste is a little bitter now but hell if he's going to let it stop them.

Sam finishes everything off by licking Dean's amulet clean and letting it drop with a firm smack against Dean's breastbone.

"Ow." Dean rubs his chest and frowns up at Sam.

"I didn't feel anything." Sam pulls them both upright and tries really hard to cuddle with Dean despite the very limited space. Next time they're doing this on the couch.

"Bobby's gonna be pissed if we stain this." Sam sounds sleepy and sated and okay, Dean's surprised Sam's not making any weird points about the fact that they just swapped come for the first time in forever. That's a pretty intimate act, and certainly not one Dean does with just anybody.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Mm?" Sam punctuates his reply with a kiss to Dean's cheek.

"We're gonna be uh, doing this a lot more, right?"

Sam nods against Dean's shoulder. "I sure hope so, babe. You know I love doing it with you."

That, Dean thinks as he closes his eyes, is about the best answer he could hope for. Still, that money Sam spent on the porno could have been used for something else….

"Wait – did you seriously just say Bigfoot?" Dean sits up next to Sam, the elderly mattress creaking as loud as a banshee wail under him. "Because I'm positive that's what I heard."

Sam turns the screen of his laptop towards Dean. "I mean, it is Washington, and we're pretty far out." Sam stretches the siesta they were taking out of his shoulders and puts his arm around Dean, resting his chin on his shoulder as Dean reads. Dean uses his free arm to scratch Sam's back, sliding his hand under Sam's shirt and working his way slowly up his spine.

"I just didn't think that, you know, Bigfoot _actually_ existed. Most of our cryptids are ones that haven't been hoaxed before."

"Yeah, because wendigos are a popular Halloween costume."

Dean hums an affirmative, scrolling down the page. Yeah, this sounds like Bigfoot alright; lots of hair, giant footprints, inhuman grunting and wailing as it had trashed a hiker's camp. Dean kind of feels for the guys that were there but also doesn't – they shouldn't have been out in the fucking woods where Bigfoot supposedly lives.

"Dad's journal doesn't have anything about Bigfoot in there, does it?" Dean hands the laptop back to Sam and then reclines against his musty pillows; next time, they are staying in a better place than this. Yeah cash has been a little short lately, but they've been doing a lot of running around. Chasing demons and ghouls doesn't come cheap.

"I'll check." Sam swings his legs out from under the covers, the late afternoon sun coming in through the curtains dousing him in light. Dean kind of forgets all about Bigfoot for a moment, instead watching Sam's legs and ass as he walks over to the table they've set up their notes on. He's not wearing his jeans, just clad in t-shirt and boxer briefs, and even then they're riding up his thighs. Man, if there hadn't been morning sex Dean would be boning up again right now.

"There isn't anything here," Sam mutters. He's walking back towards the bed, and Dean has to bite his lip to keep from making any sort of sound that might give him away; the tip of Sam's dick is peeking out of the left leg of his shorts, and Sam either isn't aware or is leaving it that way deliberately.

Either way, Dean kind of wants to go and stick his tongue up under his long, loose foreskin.

Focus, Dean, you can fool around later.

"So you know your dick is hanging out, right?" So much for not addressing it.

"Huh? Oh." Sam looks down and tries to pull his underwear down, only he doesn't do it quite far enough and Dean can still see enough of the goods to be thoroughly distracted. Sam's still thumbing through the journal, his "I'm reading right now and nothing can distract me" face on.

"Let me," Dean says. He walks on his knees to the foot of the bed and straightens the legs of Sam's underwear, resisting the urge to cop a feel to see if Sam even notices. He does let his knuckles brush Sam's bulge, quickly tracing along the outline before settling himself back on his haunches. Sam's still nose deep in the journal, frowning with every page that he turns.

"It's always the least obvious monsters in here, never the famous ones."

"I don't know, Bloody Mary is famous." Dean stretches his arms above his head, grunting as he flexes and trying to get Sam's attention. So far he's not having much luck.

"Yeah, well…" Sam doesn't finish his sentence, just drops the journal and frowns. "If it _is_ Bigfoot, how do we kill it?" Sam crosses his arms across his chest, the ponder lines in his forehead crinkling. Dean decides he's just not going to be getting anywhere with seduction right now, so he flops back on the bed and makes himself comfortable.

"Could always Google it," Dean suggests. "Bound to be some nutjob who's put something together."

"Yeah, because searching for 'how to kill Bigfoot' wouldn't raise some suspicions."

"You didn't say that when we watched twink porn the other night." That was a really good night – what Dean remembers of it. Kind of hazy now, all orgasms and Sam and he jerking each other off.

"Because porn is normal – murdering mythological creatures might raise a flag." Sam looks around for his pants and Dean turns over on his side to watch him move around while he does. Man, Sam's really gorgeous like this, brain turned on and his hair still sleep mussed.

"You could always sleep on it a little more." Dean pats the bed and gives Sam his best 'come hither' smile.

"I need to make some calls." Sam shimmies into his jeans, leaving them undone as he digs around in his pocket for his phone.

"You could have left the pants off to do that."

"Hey, I'm not here to be objectified right now." Sam waves Dean off as he holds the phone to his ear, waiting for whomever to pick up. Dean gets up and walks over to Sam, throwing as much "sexy and I know it" into his gait as he can manage for ten feet. Sam doesn't acknowledge, just keeps listening to the phone ring.

It's not that Dean's really that horny, he just wants to touch Sam, maybe kiss him a little. It's been two months since their vacation at Bobby's, and things have been going really, really great – and the whole treating each other as full romantic partners thing, to Dean's surprise, has been working well. Gives them something else to fight for when they're chasing God knows what. It had before, but now… now it's different.

"Shit, voicemail." Sam leaves a message to the effect of "if you know how to kill Bigfoot, call me back." Dean hugs his chest from behind and kisses in between his shoulder blades because he can, and Sam likes to be kissed there.

"You know, we could just go and see for ourselves and take everything we've got into the woods."

Sam tries another contact before giving up on that one too, tossing his phone to the bed and enveloping Dean's hands with his own. "We could."

"Besides – it's just a really ugly gorilla – and we've got armor piercing bullets."

"And what do you suggest we shoot them out of? We don't have assault rifles or machine guns."

"This is America, Sammy – you can get any gun you want."

"I feel like that's the only reason you have _any_ patriotism at all."

Dean shrugs and kisses Sam's neck.

"Everyone's got a reason, baby boy."

Sam just chuckles and turns around to give Dean a deep kiss.

"Dean, you _have_ to stop humming Metallica." Sam's low whisper is way too loud, Dean thinks – and he's the one telling Dean to be quiet?

"It's not Metallica, it's Radiohead."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever – it's still loud."

Dean tries to swat at Sam's side but misses. "You can barely hear it, leave me alone." Dean doesn't mean to raise his voice but he does – and it echoes off the trees around them, which just makes him resume humming even louder.

Sam sighs, holding his arm out in front of Dean to stop them. They find another track, fresher than the last one. There's also hair too, long, stringy brownish-black; Dean has absolutely every reason to hum right now, because he's nervous as hell. They've actually found solid evidence of Bigfoot, and have been out here for three hours now looking for him. Sure it's still afternoon but the light doesn't exactly penetrate into foliage this thick. They'd had a hard enough time sneaking into the woods because of course this is federal land and there are guys with guns protecting it. Screw Sasquatch for making that bad call – Dean's not about to go out of this world because of a park ranger with an itchy trigger finger.

"This is less than an hour old, Dean – we're close."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Dean unsling his shiny new assault rifle from his shoulder and checks to see if the bullets that were in it thirty minutes ago are still safely ensconced in their chamber – they are.

Sam straightens from his crouch and looks around. "Are you okay Dean?" Sam gives him his _I'm being completely serious right now_ face. That face never does anything but make Dean feel guilty.

"Look, I'm… you know this thing is huge and dangerous and probably hard to kill, right?"

"And that makes it different from usual… how?"

"Because, it's goddamn Bigfoot, Sammy!" Dean flails his arms to exaggerate the size of their quarry. Sam's still looking at him like he's lost at least part of his mind, and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders.

"Dean, babe, it's okay." Dean can tell Sam is trying really hard to believe his own words ( _good, it means he's not the only one freaking out_ ) but it makes him feel a little better all the same.

"I'm glad you have that much confidence." Dean's voice drops back down to a whisper and he takes a deep breath, not quite ready to step out from under Sam's hands – which feel enormous right now.

"It's not often we get to go after something that can be killed with actual bullets, you know?" Sam lets go of him and holds Dean's left hand – which Dean makes no effort to extricate himself from.

"Like military grade armor piercing bullets are normal."

"But we didn't have to chant over them or carve special sigils into them."

Sam does raise a good point.

"Aren't we supposed to be quiet right now?"

Sam shrugs. "Maybe us whispering will draw him out."

Dean's nervousness makes the hairs on his neck stand up all over again. "I kind of want to see him coming _before_ he breaks our necks."

"For all we know, Bigfoot could be a girl."

"Oh, like that makes it better."

Sam stops them again after walking another five hundred or so feet and sniffs the air, his nose wrinkling in reflex. "Might want to get your gun ready." Dean takes a whiff of their surroundings and mimics Sam's disgusted expression.

"That fucking _reeks_." It smells like unwashed dog, only it's a thousand times worse and that dog rolled in shit-filled garbage; the one time he got sprayed by a skunk was lavender and fresh linen compared to this.

The sound of a low growl from their left makes them freeze.

"That wasn't you, was it?" Dean hopes to God it was just Sam's stomach making noise.

Sam doesn't open his mouth to reply, shaking his head back and forth.

Two things happen, in very quick succession

Alright, three.

One – Bigfoot steps out of its hiding place, and shit is that motherfucker _ugly –_ hairy, nine feet tall, and mangy and terrifying looking as hell. Two, Dean's genitals retreat so far up into his body that Sam – if they survive this – is going to have to spend a week coaxing them back out. Three, between the deafening bang of Sam's rifle and that thing's roar, Dean is positive he's going to need an ear trumpet for the rest of his life.

Only after processing those things does he raise his gun and squeeze off a couple rounds in Bigfoot's direction.

It moves _fast_ – no lumbering, not hesitation, just movement. One giant hand catches Dean in the shoulder and he's flat on his back, his gun still pointed at its hairy form. Sam manages to sidestep once before he's laid out too, fear plainly obvious on his face as he takes aim and misses, the barrel getting knocked out of the way by Bigfoot's hand. Sam rolls before he's clobbered, the best roaring in frustration.

"DEAN – ANY TIME YOU WANT TO TAKE A SHOT!" Sam dodges another punch, and hey, it's Bigfoot fighting Sasquatch.

Dean actually feels bad about that one, because Sam's about to die.

Dean gets to his feet and aims, catching Bigfoot in the shoulder – at this close range he can hear the bone snap. Bigfoot screams again, this time turning towards Dean, crossing the twenty foot space between them in an instant. Dean shoots again, hopes he hit something, and then starts to run. Just, fuck everything, there's a mythological beast after him, he's out of here.

"Dean, to your left!"

Dean sidesteps as fast as he can, dodging between two trees right as a hairy arm occupies the space he was just in a moment ago. Sam's gun booms loudly enough that they probably hear it in the next county over, and either someone's going to come investigate or they'll be arrested; or worse yet, just plain fucking dead.

Man, their options are shit piled on shit.

Dean suddenly realizes that the only sound he hears is his own terrified breathing, and not giant-ass monkey screams.

Bigfoot's lying face down in the bramble, half of its head missing. Sam's still standing on the other side of the clearing, disbelief in his expression at the fact that _he just took off half of Bigfoot's head._

Dean quickly checks to make sure he hasn't inadvertently soiled himself, then steps close enough to poke Bigfoot's hand with the toe of his boot.

"Dean?"

Dean looks up at Sam, running across the clearing to him. "Yeah?"

"You okay?"

All four limbs are still attached, not broken, and for the most part he doesn't hurt, save for having the wind knocked out of him.

"Yeah, I think so. You?"

"Yeah."

They both look down at Bigfoot's corpse, huge and stinking and bloody.

"So… what do we do with this?" Sam backs up a few steps like three feet is going to get him away from the smell.

Dean shrugs, because he truly doesn't have an answer for Sam. "Uh… no, can't burn it or bury it. Huh, let nature take care of it?"

The retreating daylight makes the decision for them – yeah, they're just gonna let someone or something else find the body. Dean wants to be out of here before dark in case, God forbid, there's another one of these things out here. One near-death experience enough per day is more than enough.

Oh and the park rangers likely heard them shooting, so there's that as motivation to leave as well.

Now that they're no longer tracking prey, they can move a lot faster – but Dean stays quiet this time, because he knows they're being searched for. They hid the Impala as close to the woods as possible and thank God for Sam's good sense of direction, because he's pretty sure he'd have them going in the wrong direction in a heartbeat. The fading daylight doesn't provide much to see by, but it's certainly enough to watch Sam's ass by as they trek back to civilization. That's certainly a good incentive.

By the time they reach the car – ranger and further injury free – it's after nightfall. Dean feels exhausted, his legs and feet aching from the rough terrain. Sam looks as run down if not more so then Dean, and he leans gratefully against the Impala, propping his rifle up next to him. Dean joins him with a couple bottles of water from the cooler and a can of roasted nuts.

"Almost makes me wish for a ghost – at least they live where the people are." Sam drains his bottle of water in one long gulp, throat bobbing and head tossed back. Dean watches, mesmerized, for the entire twenty seconds.

"Did… was that a Little Mermaid reference?" Dean covers himself by shoving a bunch of cashews in his mouth. Yeah he's always thirsty for Sam but now? Come on Dean, get it together.

Sam quirks an eyebrow at Dean and fishes some nuts out of the can. "Not intentionally."

"Good, because you'd make a shitty Ariel." Dean grins and doesn't quite avoid Sam's hand striking out to swat him.

"The next think you're gonna tell me is you want me to wear a seashell bra and a fishtail just to see if you're wrong."

Dean grins lasciviously and Sam utters one of his signature long suffering sighs.

"Aw, c'mon Sammy, you're pretty enough to be a mermaid." Dean bumps his shoulder and tries to crowd up to Sam's side.

Sam elbows Dean back to get him off. "You'd make a good Sebastian." The smile on Sam's face gives him away completely, and Dean feels his knees tremble just a tiny bit. "Crabby, smart-mouthed, and you turn bright red when you get sunburned."

Sam's way too busy laughing at his own cleverness, so Dean takes his chance and tackles him to the ground.

"I'll show _you_ crabby." Dean tries to pin Sam's wrists, his knees squeezing his torso, only Sam has a foot against the car, and he uses it to push himself over to flip them.

"You're just jealous." Sam's digging his knees into the soft ground to try and keep his upper hand, only Dean isn't about to give up quite yet - never mind the fact that he's already turned on and would probably stay here if he didn't have a point to prove.

"Jealous of what?" Dean pushes against Sam and manages to almost sit up before he's reminded that Sam has really fucking good upper body strength and he's flat on his back in the dirt again. He's reminded of when they used to spar, wrestling and brawling and everything in between – those times normally ended up with them rubbing off against each other.

Dean's okay with that happening now, too.

Sam grunts as he tangles his legs with Dean's, trapping him so that he can't use those to flip them. Dammit, Sam, why do you have to make this so much fun?

"Jealous that I actually had a clever comeback for once." Sam leans in close, his nose just barely touching Dean's.

"This isn't fair."

"What's not fair?"

"Using your masculine wiles to win."

Sam laughs and tightens his hold on Dean's wrists. "You have those too, you know."

"Yeah, they kind of don't work when _I'm_ the one pinned to the ground." Dean wiggles his hips, seeing as how that's the only thing he can move at the moment.

"I believe you said you liked being taken advantage of in this situation." Sam's voice drops to that dangerous low pitch, the one that makes Dean's blood run hot and his mouth go dry.

"I mean… I do, but…" Dean swears he had a clever retort, but Sam's proximity has shut down any chance of him remembering it.

Sam's lips against his neck make talking seem kind of silly, so Dean shuts up and turns his head. Sam lets go of his wrists and pulls Dean up off the ground right back into his arms; Sam earns a lot of points for smoothness as he finishes the motion with a kiss, his mouth salty and warm. Dean forgets all about losing their wrestling match in the process, seeing as how this is a pretty damn good consolation prize.

Dean slides his hands up Sam's back, roaming underneath his sweat jacket and t-shirt. His muscles are throbbing from holding Dean down, bulging with power. Sam groans as Dean's fingers dig into each one, massaging them while their kiss gets that much deeper. Yes, he's perfectly aware of the fact that they're kind of slobbering on each other but that just means it's good, really good, and who the hell doesn't like long-lasting tongue kisses with their brother?

Sam turns them around so that Dean's back is to the car, pushing him against it and keeping his leg firmly between Dean's. Not to be outdone, Dean pulls Sam as close as he can and rubs himself against his thigh, friction and denim and Sam's musky smell making him leak in his underwear. Exhausted and bramble-scratched or not, Dean's kind of insanely aroused right now.

"Want you to fuck me, Sammy." No dressing it up, no hinting – Dean wants Sam's cock in his ass, and the sooner the better. Besides, he's clean and ready, and there isn't any need in letting that go to waste.

There's this long, picture perfect moment as Sam gets his arms under Dean's thighs and lifts, not even so much as grunting as he picks Dean up. This is one of those things that doesn't happen often, them lifting each other (and almost always Sam lifting Dean) but when it does, Dean feels _giddy._ Mind you, Dean isn't light – a solid 175 at least, and a good percentage of that is muscle – but Sam lifts him like he's nothing, just keeps kissing him as he walks the eight or so steps around to the front of the Impala and places Dean on the hood as gentle as can be.

Dean smiles into another kiss as he thinks about how good they've gotten at this, perfectly in sync with each other as his hands go for Sam's belt buckle, the gentle clink of metal coming undone accompanying each deep breath they take. Sam's just as hard as Dean is, his cock tenting out his underwear as soon as Dean gets his jeans down to his thighs. He slips his hand in and wraps his fingers around Sam's shaft, trying to keep as firm a grip as possible as he gives Sam a good tug.

"You're distracting me," Sam murmurs. He's making a game try at getting Dean's jeans off, except Dean's not making that easy.

"And you're mad about it because…." Dean reaches up and pulls Sam's underwear down to join his pants – which are now heading fast towards his ankles.

"Because, maybe I want to get my hands on you too?" Sam takes a moment to take his jacket off and drop it to the ground, leaving him in just his t-shirt with his dick pointed towards the sky. Fuck, Dean wishes he had a camera right now.

"Alright, you've convinced me." Dean rushes to get his jeans off, Sam helping by tugging them down his legs and off from around his boots, his underwear joining the growing pile of clothes on the ground.

Dean sits back and spreads his legs, presenting himself to Sam. The look on Sam's face is absolutely _priceless,_ between the unabashed lust and the way he reflexively grabs his cock to stroke himself.

"You like, baby boy?"

Sam doesn't take his eyes off of Dean's body. "Dean, I _always_ like."

Dean just smiles and pretends that the cool metal of the Impala's hood is a memory foam mattress; he's got a feeling that this is going to be one _hell_ of a ride.

"Lube's in the glovebox."

Sam nearly trips over himself as he gets his pants from around his ankles and kicks them off, dick swinging back and forth as he moves. Dean cranes his neck to watch as he opens the door and plunders the glovebox for their tube of Gun Oil (Dean likes the fact it comes in a bullet-shaped container, shut up.)

Ten seconds later and Sam's got it, already pouring a generous amount onto the fingers of his right hand, Dean's gaze locked with his. Sam looks so fucking sexy when he's really jonesing for it, his cheeks flushed and his dick dripping with precome; Dean reaches out to catch a drop on his fingers, bringing it to his lips and licking them as seductively as he can manage; he knows he's got what people call "dick sucking lips" and he always likes to find ways to smear them with something to get Sam hot, and precome always does the trick. You know, just in case Sam didn't want it badly enough anyway.

"You're awful," Sam says, and gets his revenge by putting cold lube all over Dean's hole. Dean squirms out of reflex but doesn't move away, scooting closer to Sam so that he can hook his legs around his waist. Sam gets pulled forward, Dean's left boot on the back of his neck to bring him in for a kiss. See, he can be flexible when he wants to dammit.

"But I'm _your_ awful." Dean moans as two of Sam's fingers slide in, his body already starting to open up to Sam's touch. If they get caught by park rangers now, then they're just going to have to wait until they're finished, because Dean's not stopping now for anything.

"True." Sam's tongue fucks into Dean's mouth the same moment he pushes his fingers knuckle deep, Dean moaning so loud that he makes his own teeth rattle. He listens to the Impala's suspension creak as he inches forward, trying to give Sam as much of an advantage as possible. Whether or not Sam realizes Dean's trying to fuck himself down on his fingers does unsaid.

There's actually a moment where Dean's lifted his ass clear of the hood and is suspended in mid-air by nothing more than his own hands and Sam's hold on him. Sam slides in a third finger, curling all three at the same time and finding Dean's prostate as a result; Dean's world goes fuzzy and bright, his heart hammering in his chest because he can only imagine how he looks right now, legs spread wide and Sam's big fingers prepping him. Sam kisses another moan out of him before he lets Dean go and puts him back on the hood.

"You're getting kind of loud, babe." Sam's voice is as warm as velvet, right against his ear as he slicks up his cock.

"Can you blame me?" Dean puts both arms around Sam's body, ready to hold on tight.

"Hey, I'm okay with it – just hope we're not attracting any unwanted attention." Sam presses the tip of his cock to Dean's hole and runs his fingers down his spine, relaxing him before he pushes in; doesn't matter how many times they do this, Dean knows it's going to hurt just a little. He'd take his jacket off so that they could be all skin on skin but he kind of likes the idea of fucking partially clothed. Besides, Sam looks hot with his shirt all rucked up and sticking to him.

"Don't think now's the time to worry about that." _C'mon Sam, I'm ready._

Sam, bless him, is really good at reading body language and all of the stuff that Dean says with his eyes. He looks down, watching as he starts to push into Dean's body. The head is always the toughest part, beautiful, mushroom-shaped, making Sam's cock look even bigger than it is; Dean feels that first, the way it opens his body up for the rest. He bites Sam's shoulder, even too much lube not enough, tears stinging his eyes. Sam has to stop a third of the way in, catching his breath against Dean's neck.

Dean rubs the back of Sam's head and kisses the join of his neck and shoulder. "Good?"

"Yeah." Sam kisses Dean on the mouth, quick and dirty, before he puts his hands on Dean's hips and holds him steady, Dean feeling just a little bit like he's going to be split in two. Maybe Sam got bigger without him noticing, or he's just still clenched up from chasing goddamn Bigfoot through the Pacific Northwest; either way, he's hyper aware of just how full he's going to be in a second or two.

Dean knows Sam's balls-deep by the way he pounds his fist against the hood, sinking that last half inch in and bottoming out completely. Dean feels it too, that almost too thick part at the base of Sam's cock making his head swim.

"Think… think this isn't gonna last long." Sam rests his head against Dean's shoulder for a moment, letting them both breathe before he dares move again. Dean plays with the beginnings of those flippy little curls Sam gets when his hair gets too long, damp and darker than normal with sweat.

"No complaints if it doesn't Sammy, you know that."

Sam nods, takes one last breath before he picks his head up and slowly pulls back. Sure it feels like he's getting reamed from the inside out now but it's a good feeling, even if that too stretched sensation is still there. Sam tries to be gentle, only instinct is starting to take over and he moves too quickly, pulling halfway out before fucking back in and causing Dean to moan like the slut he is for Sam's cock.

Ah well, Dean ran out of shame a long time ago.

Sam gives it another try, only this time Dean sees that "I know he's not going to break" look in his eyes, and he goes a little faster, hitting Dean right in the sweet spot. He feels his breath leave his lungs and his cock pulse; Dean looks down at himself, down at the dark stain of precome on his t-shirt that's the result of this whole process. Sam sees it too and starts to fuck Dean slowly, making him leak more. They lock eyes, Dean losing sight of Sam temporarily as Sam jerks his cock and coats his fingers with it, sucking them clean before offering the same to Dean. Dean opens his mouth wide, swallowing three and tasting himself behind Sam.

It just makes Dean want it even harder, faster, _deeper._

"C'mon Sammy, fuck me like you love me."

Well, _that_ isn't what he wanted to come out. Not that the l-word isn't true, just it doesn't figure into dirty talk that well.

It works anyway.

Sam pulls Dean close, lays over him so that Dean's ass is kind of hanging off the end of the hood. He feels his butt cheeks jiggle as Sam goes full on pound town (there isn't a better term for it) and kisses Dean so hungrily that it probably looks like Dean's being attacked. Dean matches him as best he can, keeping one foot braced against the bumper and his other leg around Sam's body, both hands held by one of Sam's above his head. The other is on his cock, stroking him fast, not quite synchronous with Sam's hips.

Dean honestly couldn't be happier right now, sweat and spit and Sam fucking him like the world's ending all extra filling in the pie.

"Shit, Dean, 'm close." Sam's voice is sweetly ragged, tattered at the edges from fucking Dean's brains out.

"Me too Sammy, want you to come in me, want you to fill me up and lick me out." Fuck, Dean actually _feels_ that filthy right now.

Sam slams into his body so hard as his orgasm hits him that the Impala actually moves back half an inch on its wheels, screaming into the worn leather of Dean's jacket. It pushes Dean over the edge, and he feels more than sees his come splattering his body, his shirt quickly rucked up so that he doesn't soil it any further. Everything goes unfocused and hot, his eyes screwed shut against the utter, blissful chaos of them coming together, shuddering so hard that it makes their voices shaky. God, quick and dirty like this is always the best, and Dean kicks himself for not reuniting like this sooner.

Sam doesn't leave him much time to bask before he's pulling himself out and getting to his knees, yanking Dean forward as his tongue dips into his ass and makes good on Dean's request.

"Shhiii….iiit" is all Dean can get out, his fingers clutching the edge of the hood so that he doesn't go flying away. Seriously, one good gust of wind and he's gone.

Sam doesn't hold back on him either, his tongue hitting all of those little sensitive spots inside Dean's body, hungry for his own come. Dean gathers up what he can off of his chest and stomach, making sure Sam sees him lick all ten fingers. Sam's mouth is open wide against his ass, nose pushed into Dean's balls and inhaling the scent of his body. Man, they're going to be doing a couple extra eternities in hell for this but Dean just can't find it in him to care.

Dean gets pushed back up the hood all the way to the windshield as Sam lays over the top of him, face smeared with come and lube as he kisses Dean so deeply that he may actually hit his tonsils. Dean gets greedy, wraps as much of himself around Sam as he can and absolutely doesn't let him go, the weighty blanket of Sam's body too fucking good to consider moving off of him with any sort of sincerity.

The coolness of near-midnight is what makes them finally break apart, sticky, sated, and all smiles. Dean kind of wishes he had pants right now but Sam will do nicely for keeping him warm.

"Hey," Sam whispers, running his fingers through Dean's hair.

"Hey." Dean kind of loves how the starlight reflects back into Sam's eyes – like he needed to get any prettier.

"So uh, when you said fuck me like you love me – I do, Dean."

"I know, baby boy." If you opened Dean's chest right now, you'd see his heart swollen six times too big, and all of it would be for Sam, Crap, he's getting sappy – not the vibe he wants to try and cultivate, even though he's still got come running out of his ass and they're both getting a little crusty from fucking.

"And remember a while back when you asked if I was okay? I am, Dean, and I'm…"

"I get you, Sammy." Instead of letting Sam talk any further, Dean pulls him for another kiss.

Who knows, they might get the sunrise to break them apart next time.

One year later

Dean hasn't said much for almost a month. What is there to say, really, when someone dies? Worse yet, trades himself to a demon? There isn't anything, not a goddamn thing.

So far as a Winchester funeral goes, it had been about the same as normal; build a pyre, find some way to bless the shroud the bastard's wrapped in, and then stay until there's nothing left. John had taken a long time to burn, and Dean had stood rooted to the same spot the whole time. Just… fucking gone. Because he gave himself up for _him._

Sam still has the cuts and bruises on his face from the car accident, not quite as livid now as they had been but still red, still enough to make him wince with pain. Dean wishes he could take that pain from him and just lump it with his own, maybe feel something other than numbness.

Dean has never once believed he's worthy of sacrifice, and yet here he is, still dirtside up and breathing while John spends _his_ time in hell, suffering.

How fucked up is that?

"Another," Dean grunts, and the bartender – Sandra is her name, and even she doesn't bother to tell Dean he's had five glasses already. Whisky might not be a wise decision, but at least it burns a little. She slides the glass back to Dean and heads back to the other end of the bar.

Sam sits on the stool next to his, one hand covering his mouth while his beer sits in front of him, practically untouched. His hair is longer now, and soft as silk. Dean had held Sam for a long time that night after John had passed, stroking his hair and letting the tears pour down his face. Now Sam doesn't dare leave his side, yet afraid to reach out for Dean. Fucking perfect, he's alienated the one constant good in his life.

That or Sam's afraid he'll break. Dean can't really blame him, because that's about what he feels like might happen.

Sandra comes back a few minutes later, tries not to lean against the worn bar top. "Quarter to three guys, so if you want anything else, now's the time."

Dean shakes his head no, just downs the rest of his drink and gets up. He makes and effort not to wobble, and Sam gets up with him.

"Hang on a sec," he says.

"Where you going?" It's the longest sentence he's said to Sam all day.

"Want to see if that jukebox has uh, a song on it."

Dean manages half a smile. "It's a jukebox Sammy, of course it has a song on it."

Sam frowns at him. "Just stay here a sec."

Dean's in no mood to argue, and if Sam wants to check out the jukebox, he'll let him. Maybe he's going to sing or something, just to break up the monotony of misery that's been hanging over them.

Tony Bennet's voice starts to croon "Fly Me To The Moon" a minute later, and Dean watches Sam as he comes back over to him.

"Nice song Sammy, but why?"

"Just… come here."

"Uh… okay." Dean makes himself concentrate on the four steps it takes to be in Sam's space and as soon as he's there, Sam's got his hands on his hips and he starts to sway back and forth.

"I thought about this song the other day." Sam hums along softly to the words and rests his forehead against Dean's.

Dean starts to feel a little warm, maybe not really alive, but warm, probably because this is quite possibly the furthest thing from what he was expecting to happen.

"How come?"

Sam chuffs a laugh and kisses Dean's cheek. "Remember when I was gonna go to prom my junior year?"

Dean shrugs. "Kind of? That was a while ago, memory's kind of fuzzy."

Sam nuzzles Dean's neck and pulls him in a little closer. "This is the song you helped me practice to for slow dancing. Said that if I mouthed the words to my date I'd get lucky. Thing is Dean, I kind of wanted to take you instead."

"And why bring this up now?"

"Because it's… good? Happy?" Sam lets his voice trail off like he's leaving it open for more synonyms, should Dean care to provide any.

Dean exhales and nods, the memory coming back to him in flickers. "I remember you getting lucky anyway."

"Yeah, two days later in another state – with you."

"That girl wasn't that pretty anyway, Sam, c'mon now. What was her name – Stephanie?"

"I was going to go because no one had asked her, and no one had asked me. Just didn't want her to be lonely."

"But she wound up lonely anyway."

"Yeah – I was still in the tux when Dad said we needed to go." Sam catches himself too late at the mention of Dad, and Dean feels that empty feeling tap the inside of his chest.

"At least he didn't make you return the tux."

Sam stops moving and leans up to look Dean in the eye. "Hey, at least I got to dance in it anyway, even if we were both drunk off our asses and it was cold."

The song finishes and Dean stops too, seventeen year old Sam in his too big tuxedo in his mind's eye competing with Sam now, world-weary, beat up, and still making Dean's heart beat too fast and his knees weak.

"Why don't you play it again, Sam?"

Sam does, and for the first time in a long, long while Dean actually starts to think maybe he and Sam are going to be okay.


End file.
